


At Face Value

by lambchop33



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Dystopian society, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, I promise I did not declaw any cats while writing this fic, M/M, MD Steve Rogers, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Sam loves Fluffy the cat, Sam loves conspiracy theories, Science Fiction, Steve dreams about Bucky, Steve has nasty headaches, consensual but not safe sex, just pretend there are condoms, there’s a big fucking wall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 03:59:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 64,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14180091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lambchop33/pseuds/lambchop33
Summary: Steve Rogers is leading what he thinks is a pretty normal life in Sanctuary, a bustling city with a large population. And a big wall around it. He has a good job and good friends. Totally and completely normal--except for the face he sees in his dreams. Every night. The face of a stranger. One he's hopelessly attracted to. When that stranger unexpectedly drops into his life in the form of Bucky Barnes, Steve's got to figure out what it all means, and how to handle it when his totally normal life suddenly is anything but that.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I love tales of fantasy and science fiction. I also love tales of Stucky love and fluff and smut. Sooner or later, they were gonna merge. :-)
> 
> Edit: I promise, animal lovers, no sweet kitties have ever lost their claws because of me.

Chapter One

“ _Mind readers._ ” 

The word is whispered, to fully impart its seriousness.

Steve stares at the dark-skinned man next to him, momentarily at a loss for words, then cocks his head to the side and sarcastically offers an only slightly acidic, “Seriously?”

Sam rubs a hand over his dark goatee and drops it to the wooden table, with its cheery red and white checkered tablecloth. “Come on, that one _could_ be true!”

Clint, the third person seated with them, a stocky man with short, brown hair and expressive green eyes, is holding his sides, his laughter having gone from a loud burst to the silent kind, mouth open but no sound emerging. Around them, the Mexican restaurant they frequent has a brisk crowd and loud Mariachi music playing, so it goes pretty much unnoticed by anyone else. 

“People in the outlying districts are _mind readers?_ And you actually _swallowed_ that?” he chokes out. “Can they teleport and throw things around using only the power of their minds, too?”

Steve grunts. “Maybe they can teleport Sam’s cat right out of here,” he jokes.

“Hey now, you leave Fluffy out of this!” Sam protests hotly. 

Steve’s smile widens. Sam is his next door neighbor in their high rise apartment building, and he loves having his best friend so close to him. He just doesn’t love Fluffy. Someday, he’s convinced that cat is going to assassinate him. Anytime he visits Sam’s place, the grey ball of fur either stares at him with baleful eyes, or does a sneak attack and tries to disembowel him with his claws. Except, he no longer has claws, so instead the animal ends up batting at him with tiny, soft feet. God forbid that cat ever figure out how to bite. 

He shakes his head. “Mind reading. Honestly, Sam, where do you hear this stuff?”

Clint tosses back a nacho from the basket at the center of their table. “Had to be that conspiracy theory website that the government is always shutting down.” 

Sam’s lower lip juts out in a brooding manner. “It’s not a conspiracy theory website. It’s a truth-telling website. And the government is just afraid of the truth getting out, that’s all.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Why else would they keep our system separate from the other territories and control all inflow and outflow of information in the city?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Steve quips, beer bottle in hand, “Maybe because they’re worried about computer viruses taking down our system?”

Sam waves a hand at him. “Bullshit. They really just want to keep us in the dark, so we stay complacent.”

There is a loud guffaw from Clint. “Spoken like a true conspiracy theorist,” he jokes, and clinks his bottle with Steve’s. “Here’s to aliens who can read our minds.”

Sam chugs back some of his own beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not _aliens._ Just people.” He sets his bottle down. “Someday you guys are going to realize that my theories are true, and come begging me for forgiveness.”

Steve shrugs and grins. “Clint, read my mind right now. What am I thinking?”

Clint chuckles. “That Sam is full of shit.”

Steve makes a dumbstruck expression. “Amazing!” He sticks his thumb out at Clint, while looking at Sam. “How did he know?” 

Sam flips them off, making both of them laugh harder. It didn’t matter how fantastic the story was, if it was about a governmental cover-up, Sam was all over it. He didn’t trust any governing body as far as he could throw it and the fact that he worked for the government didn’t sway him at all. Technically, they all worked for the government, since private industry in Sanctuary was a thing of the past. The fact that his offerings were typically trashed by his two friends didn’t diminish his enthusiasm either. He continued to regale them with different stories; where they came from, he never said, but they were wide-ranging, and always amusing. 

Dinner is delivered to their table and conversation turns to other topics. After the men have finished their meal, they exit to the street and walk the short distance to the movie theater. It’s late May and the days are still getting longer, so there’s plenty of light left in the sky for their jaunt. The sidewalks are jammed with people all going about their Saturday night business, as the street they are traveling on is home to all manner of shopping, as well as entertainment. 

Steve looks up at the sky while they are stopped at a traffic light. To the east, it’s just starting to deepen to a twilight blue, visible in slivers between tall buildings. To the west, it’s a deep orange-red. The fiery light glints off the glass of the skyscrapers brilliantly, making him squint a little. During the daytime, all of the glass and steel makes for what Steve feels is a somewhat sterile but clean, bright, gleaming backdrop. The glass is functional, as the solar panels within help power the city, and he appreciates that. Still, he likes it better at twilight, when the blazing rays of the sun going down light everything up. 

Sam feels the same way too, but for a rather different reason, Steve reflects as they cross the street; he likes it at night because the city looks a bit more mysterious and exotic. Steve’s long-time friend has, for as long as he can remember, wanted to travel to other territories, other cities. Explore. Discover. Personally, Steve didn’t get all that wanderlust. 

Sanctuary, the city they’d both been born in and lived in all of their thirty-odd years, was large and diverse enough for him. The unknown was just that…unknown, and therefore risky. After all, they had everything they needed right there, and at five million inhabitants, Sanctuary was one of the larger settlements left. Over the years, he, Sam, and Clint had been on plenty of adventures together—kayaking, hiking, you name it. Steve loved the outdoors…as long as it was here at home. 

Sam…not so much. Decades ago, after the country’s centralized government failed and territorial rule became the norm, permits for recreational travel were notoriously hard to come by. Even if you had enough money to apply, there was still no guarantee you would get one. Sam had applied a few times, and was always denied. It only fueled his desire to get away. Steve was content to stay put. And so what if there was a gigantic wall built around the entire city? It was so far away from the urban section they lived in, they couldn’t even see it. 

Steve had only seen it once, anyway. He glances at Sam as they near the theater. His friend saw the wall more frequently because his job as a supervisor in the agricultural department required him to visit crop sites that were way out there. It had been built long before any of them had been born, after so many pandemics had plagued the country that protected borders around metropolitan areas became vital to the health of the population within.

Sanctuary hadn’t had a pandemic itself in many years, but travel from one city to another was still highly restricted. Their airport had been shuttered long ago, when it was proven that air travel spread disease faster than wildfire. You could only take a train to the next closest city now. Steve didn’t think anything of it; that was just how it had always been. Anyway, they were free to go anywhere they wanted within the city walls, and that was good enough for him. 

The three companions reach the entrance to the theater and go in. The line for tickets is pretty long, Steve observes, but they fortunately had gotten theirs in advance. It was Sam’s turn to select the show, so of course it was whatever science fiction picture had just been released. They pass through the lobby, with its black and white tiled floors and walls filled with various gigantic posters advertising films yet to come, and go straight to the velvet roped off hallway of theater screens.

The teenaged girl working the line scans their three tickets and they head for the appropriate theater number. The multiplex is huge, so they pass a few screens before getting to their own. The theater is filling up fast and the room is noisy with conversation. Once inside and seated, Sam turns to Steve and Clint, both on his right.

“Don’t you think it’s fishy that even though the other territories are still rated unsafe, we can trade with them? We can get movies made by them? If they’re in such bad shape, how are they even producing stuff that’s just for entertainment?”

“News flash: you are referring to one territory only, and their main export is theatrical film, you know that, right?” Clint whispers loudly. “That’s how they make _all_ their money!”

Steve whispers, too. “Just because they still have outbreaks of disease doesn’t mean they can’t work. They’ve got to support themselves somehow. And you know we don’t take any food from the other territories, just goods that go through quarantine.”

Sam appears skeptical. “Not buying it.”

“Sam, Sam, Sam.” Steve rolls his eyes. “You never give up, do you.”

“Giant. Government. Cover-up.” Sam enunciates each word clearly. 

Clint leans in towards him, across Steve’s seat. “Cover-up of _what,_ dude?”

Sam leans in too, both of them in Steve’s space. “When I find that out, I’ll let you know,” he promises. 

Steve shakes his head and pushes on the crowns of both their heads to move them back away from him. He would think Sam is crazy, if he didn’t already know that Sam is crazy. But in a good way. The lights start to dim so trailers can start playing in advance of the main feature, and the trio of friends settle back in their seats and enjoy the rest of their evening. 

\--

Sunday morning. Steve wakes with a start, staring up at his ceiling dreamily. The image always fades fast, but he’s seen it so many times he can reproduce it easily in his mind. The same image he’s been seeing in his dreams over and over for the past three months. Every night. He doesn’t know why it’s always the same; it just is. 

And maybe for some people that would be disconcerting, but Steve always wakes feeling somehow safe and protected. _Happy._ That has nothing to do with the contents of his dreams, because he can’t remember anything happening anyway. It has everything to with the image. The face. Grey-blue eyes reminiscent of a stormy day, dark hair down below the chin that falls back away from high cheekbones and an angular jaw. It’s the most arresting face he’s ever seen. Striking but serene and wonderful all at once. 

And he doesn’t know who it belongs to. 

As he showers, he thinks about the face again and what it means, like he’s done countless times already. Why does this man’s face haunt his dream state? Steve has no fucking clue. He lets the hot water sluice down his chest and legs, steaming up the white tile and glass enclosure of the giant shower. He’s never told anyone about the dream, not even Clint and Sam. It sounds nuts, for one thing, and he doesn’t even know if the man is a real person, for another. Why bring it up? 

He dresses, has breakfast, and goes about the rest of his day. The memory from the morning fades, just like it always does…until the next night’s dreams. It’s a puzzle, but an innocuous one, so he doesn’t stress too much about it. 

He’s got other things to stress about, like the fact that one of their physician assistants at work started maternity leave a week ago and they still don’t have anyone to replace her. Or the fact that the last blind date Tony, his partner at work, set him up on was a complete and utter disaster (he didn’t think it possible to dislike someone so intensely on first sight, but really, a porn ‘stache? No man could pull that off). Or the fact that his headaches were getting worse. 

He’d been having them intermittently for about a year now. At first they were just mild, once-in-a-while things he could pretend weren’t a problem. Over the past month, they’d progressed in frequency and intensity, so much so that he’d made an appointment with his personal physician. And then cancelled it. And then made it again. He’d just gone in this past week and had been diagnosed with migraines, after an MRI had been negative for anything more serious. 

He’d been given some medication to try the next time he felt one coming on and was keeping his fingers crossed for some luck with pain relief. Until then, he’d just keep grinning and bearing it. Honestly, that wasn’t so hard to do, as busy as they’d been at work. This time of year, all of the weekend warriors who’d hurt themselves doing dumb stuff they weren’t in good enough shape for were coming in with various joint, tendon and ligament problems, so he and Tony were struggling to keep up with their case load. 

Later that afternoon, Steve got his first chance trying out the new medication. He felt the headache coming; they always started on the left side of his head and spread to the right side, a throbbing, pulsating pain that lately had become harder and harder to ignore. He acted right away, swallowing down the horse pill carefully and lying down like his doctor told him to. 

It didn’t help. The pain slammed into him like a brick wall, and he laid on the couch for about an hour and a half, just wincing and wishing for it to go away. That made him nervous, because what if this had happened at work? He can’t just lie around while he’s at the Center. The medicine actually seemed to make this one worse. After it fades enough that he can get up and moving again, he’s undecided whether he’s going to take it a second time. He’ll have to think on that one. 

\--

Monday morning. Time to go to work. Showered, dressed, breakfasted and with coffee in hand, he pops one door down to collect Sam. Whoever’s ready to go first heads next door to prod the other. Typically that’s Steve, since he’s a morning person and Sam is definitely a night owl. In fact, it’s pretty pointless trying to hold a conversation with him before nine AM, unless he’s had at least two cups of coffee already. 

Today is a surgery day, so Steve’s just got on jeans and a t-shirt, with his backpack slung across his back. He’ll change into his scrubs when he gets to work. He travels the whole ten feet outside his apartment, into the hallway with its honey-colored travertine tile and white walls, over to Sam’s door. After he raps on it smartly he hears a low grunt from within, and the door swings open a moment later.

Sam’s face is buried in a large travel coffee mug. “Ung,” he says, grabbing his keys from a table near the door. Sam’s apartment floor plan mirrors Steve’s: living and dining room combo, modern kitchen, two bedrooms, one and a half bath. The décor is tragically different, in Steve’s opinion, anyway. Sam’s style is…eclectic, to put a favorable spin on it. Magpie style is what Steve calls it. 

If it’s old, shiny or interesting-looking, Sam collects it. None of his furniture pieces are matching, and he likes it that way. His walls and bookcase are filled with unique finds he’s brought home from flea markets. It’s not that its junk, Steve admits; his taste level is very high. It’s just so… _non-uniform_.

To Steve’s ordered mind, that’s very distracting. His own place is clean, almost Spartan in nature, with a muted color palette. Very modern and decked out in the latest in technology. It sort of matches his personality. He may not be the wildest guy around, but once you get to know him he’ll loosen up and show you his hidden side. He likes to have fun…he just likes to avoid the unexpected, that’s all. 

That’s not to say he didn’t enjoy helping Sam find his treasures—he’d been a willing participant in many weekend day trips antiquing. He just never actually bought anything himself. In fact, it was on the return trip from a flea market that they’d found Fluffy. They were carrying in a particularly large and heavy trunk from the parking garage into their building when the cat, bedraggled and clearly on the verge of starvation, showed himself.

He was nothing but skin and bones, and had run directly between them and under the trunk they were carrying, scaring Steve half to death. Sam immediately felt sorry for him and bribed Steve into helping corner and catch him. Steve had gotten a nasty scratch across the forearm and loud hiss out of it, and Sam got himself a cat. He’d shoved the pathetic, grey feline inside the trunk for the trip upstairs, then nursed him back to health (and gotten him declawed). 

Fluffy was the picture of health now, normal weight, long fur sleek and shiny. Steve’s eyes roam the apartment, looking for the little troublemaker, but doesn’t see him anywhere. 

He’s just breathing a sigh of relief when Sam grunts, “On your left.”

Steve’s eyes shoot to his left, then up. Just in time to see Fluffy launch himself from the top of a walnut armoire set against the wall, and land on his chest. 

“Auuggh!” Steve yells, and catches the cat instinctively with his free hand. 

Since Fluffy has no claws, he can’t really dig in anywhere and the impact doesn’t hurt, but he can’t _cling_ to anything either, and slowly slides down Steve’s body back to the floor with a low, rumbling growl. He runs off toward the bedrooms, thank the stars, allowing Sam and Steve to leave for work. 

“Later, Fluffy!” Sam yells, and shuts the door behind them. 

“Eat shit, Fluffy,” Steve mutters under his breath, and gets a sharp elbow from his companion. 

“That’s his way of showing affection for you.”

“That’s his way of saying _I want to murder you._ ”

Then it’s down the hallway to the elevator and out. They’re on the eighteenth floor, so stairs (though an option) are kind of out. Once outside their building, the train stop is only fifty yards away. Mass transit is the main mode of transportation inside the city, though there’s plenty of auto traffic as well; the train is elevated above street level so they have to climb a flight of metal steps to get up to the platform. Once aboard, they only have to go one stop over to pick up Clint, and then four stops more to get to the Center. Sam has a longer commute, going another three stops to his office. 

Some days they have reading material to pass the time, or may just browse on their cell phones. On good days when Sam is well caffeinated, they may share some conversation. Today is one of the good days. 

“How are the headaches?” Sam inquires, holding his coffee under his nose so he can savor the aroma as he drinks it.

Shaking his head, Steve explains, “Had a bad one yesterday. That medicine the doctor gave me didn’t do shit.”

Sam _tsks_ sympathetically. “Sorry, man.”

The train glides to a quiet stop on its electric rails and Clint lopes in, sitting down next to Steve. “Mornin’,” he says amiably, and receives two like replies. “Ohhh,” he exclaims, eyes twinkling. “Sam is verbal this morning!”

Steve chuckles, while Sam’s face forms a sneer and then disappears behind his travel mug again. The rest of the passengers have filed on, but before the train even has a chance to move, a woman seated several rows in front of Steve and his friends starts to cry loudly. She’s older, maybe fifty, with greying hair that she is clutching ferociously in her hands as she rocks back and forth in her seat. 

The man with her, of around the same age, frantically pulls the emergency cord to keep the train from starting up. The woman’s cries grow more shrill, and everyone is staring. The passenger nearest to them offers to dial 9-1-1, and the man nods thankfully. He is holding the woman by the shoulders, trying to get her to look at him, but her head is down, as she is apparently in great pain. 

Clint looks at Steve. “Do you think it’s Echo?” he asks quietly. 

Steve shrugs back. “Could be. Haven’t seen one of those in a long time. I’ll go see if there’s anything I can do.” He rises from his seat and heads up the aisle. The poor woman is almost shrieking now, so he turns to the man with her and states loudly, “I’m a doctor. Can I do anything to help?”

The woman ignores him, but the man, short and pudgy but with kind eyes, sadly shakes his head. He mouths the word _Echo_ , and Steve nods in understanding. There’s really nothing they can do but wait for the EMS personnel to arrive and sedate her. Somberly he returns to his seat and nods at Clint. 

“Echo,” he says in a hushed voice.

They all pause for a moment of sympathy. Echo was the nickname for a rare form of brain cancer with a long, technical name that no one wanted to talk about or even pronounce, other than it being said that at the end, the headaches were so intense, the echoes of the person’s screams were all they could hear. Secretly, when Steve’s headaches started getting bad, he worried that would be his diagnosis. It was beyond relieving to hear from his doctor they were just migraines. 

“Remember Phil?” Sam said, eyebrows raised.

Steve nods, while Clint shakes his head. “Who’s Phil?”

Steve turns to him. “Guy who lived on our floor a few years back. Police officer, great guy. He was diagnosed with it and last we heard, he was going to have the surgery to fix it.”

“You mean he didn’t die?” Clint sounds surprised, rightly so. Most cases were fatal. 

“But that’s the _last_ we heard,” Sam elaborates. “Supposedly the surgery was a success, but he never came back to our building.”

“Oh?” Clint says, and Steve wished he didn’t sound _interested,_ , because here it came. 

“They say the surgery _changes you_ ,” Sam whispers loudly so they can hear him in their seating area, over the woman’s disturbing cries. They all look up as an EMS team enters the train, bringing with them a stretcher on wheels. Sam continues. “You don’t just lose your memories, your personality changes, too.”

Steve closes his eyes and groans. He’s heard this one already. Sam nods, as if this is proven fact and not just some baseless rumor. 

Clint nods, too. “Uh. Uh-huh,” he says noncommittally, and looks at Steve. “How much coffee has he had already?” 

The three-man EMS team has gotten the woman quickly up onto the stretcher and sedated before wheeling her off the train, with her companion trailing closely behind. After they’ve cleared out, the train doors close and they start on their way, only slightly late. 

Clint observes this, too, looking at the time display on his phone. “You shouldn’t be late for the first case,” he tells Steve, and he’s right. 

In a short time they have rolled up to their stop and climb down another flight of steps back to street level. The Center for Wellness was parked just off the train route, a monstrous but attractively built complex, housing all manner of health care practitioners, from dentistry to vision to surgical care. Steve stares up at the three story tan brick and stone buildings as they draw closer. Their building is close by on the left, a stone creation with large windows that came to triangular peaks on the top floor. 

He and Clint have worked in the orthopedic wing of building A for the last five years, Steve as an orthopedic surgeon and Clint as his PA. Steve considers himself very lucky the government saw fit to pair the two of them together—Clint is not only a good friend, he’s the glue that keeps their office organized and running smoothly, even on days when all hell breaks loose and it’s like wolves have turned out for their surgical appointments. 

They climb a wide, shallow stone bank of six steps to get to their entrance, push the glass doors open and enter the not-yet bustling area. Clint wouldn’t have patients to see for office visits at this hour, but he always came in early with Steve on his surgery days just to make sure all was well with the schedule. Inside they bypass the front registration area and go down a short but wide hallway to a stairwell. It led to a back, locked entrance to their office on the second floor. Swiping their name badges allowed them entrance.

Steve doesn’t go into the office yet, though, leaving Clint at the door there and continuing on to the surgical suites. He’s got a full day of cases to attend to. Later on, when he’s in between a rotator cuff repair and a total knee replacement, his phone buzzes in the pocket of his scrubs. He pulls it out and reads a text from Clint. 

_When you’ve finished your last case, come to the office. Our new PA is here!_

“Hey!” Steve exclaims happily, waving his phone at Maria, the surgical nurse sitting with him at the round lunch table in their break room. 

She picks up her dark head from her salad, fork held in midair. “What is it?”

“We finally got a PA to replace Sharon!” 

“Well it’s about time,” she pronounces dryly. “It’s not like she told HR she was pregnant seven months ago or anything.”

Laughing, Steve shoves the last of his protein bar into his mouth and mumbles a “Yeah, right.” 

The Human Resources department wasn’t known for being speedy or actually helpful when employees needed assistance. With such a large institution, the red tape getting anything done was considerable. Steve comforted himself with the knowledge that he hadn’t really needed their help for anything since he’d started there, and didn’t have to deal with them. 

He rises and stretches his arms up over his head, then looks at Maria and checks, “How much time we got?”

“They’re prepping your TKA now. Maybe ten, fifteen minutes?”

“Okay.” He grins. “I’m going to go do some deep thinking.”

She rolls her pretty, wide brown eyes. “So you’ll be in the bathroom then?”

Steve grin widens. “Yup.”

\--

Last case of the day completed, Steve strips out of his scrubs and takes a quick shower in their locker room. He doesn’t like to go home grubby. Once he’s back in his own clothes and has towel-dried his short blonde hair, he heads over to the office to meet this new physician assistant. Hopefully, Tony and Clint have already gotten him oriented and ready to go, because Clint’s been drowning, trying to cover both Tony and Steve’s caseload. 

He walks in through the back entrance, right next to his personal office. Down the hall in the reception/records area, a squared off open space where people tended to congregate, he could hear voices. He recognizes Clint’s voice, and Darcy, the office manager. Then there’s another voice, but one he’s not familiar with. Male, deep. Maybe the new PA?

Emerging from the hallway he sees Clint in his pale green scrubs and Darcy in her favorite red pantsuit. There is another man in scrubs, sitting on the edge of a desk with his back to Steve. He looks tall, well built, with wide shoulders and a neat, dark ponytail low at the base of his neck. 

Clint, spying Steve’s approach, pipes up first. “Steve! Come over and meet our temporary PA!”

The man stands and turns, extending his right hand toward Steve. Suddenly Steve’s head is filled with a loud whooshing noise and his breath is stuck in his chest. Something inside his brain seems to click and it’s almost a shock, how jarring the shift is, like the world just _moved_ under his feet. Mechanically he holds out his own hand for a shake, barely even registering the warm hand that clasps his firmly. 

“Steve Rogers, meet Bucky Barnes.” Clint makes the introduction, not realizing that Steve has gone mute and deaf at the same time. 

The face.

It’s the face.

_Bucky Barnes, PA, is the man of Steve’s dreams._


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting the man of your dreams, literally, may seem like a momentous occasion, but Bucky seems like a pretty normal guy. Which is pretty suspicious, in Sam's eyes. Steve doesn't even want to entertain Sam's theory of what's going on. He's more concerned with getting to know the man behind the face, without coming off as a creeper. It's a fine line to walk.

Chapter Two

Steve’s first reaction is utter shock. Bucky is beautiful, easily the most beautiful man Steve has ever seen. Every detail of his appearance is exactly as it was in his dreams. The attraction he feels is instantaneous—he can _feel_ his presence in the room, strong and inviting. And he’s _real_ , not just a figment of Steve’s imagination. And he’s _here_. How is that even possible? What does it mean?

That’s when the second reaction hits. Confusion. Those eyes, looking directly at him—they’re polite, friendly. There’s no recognition there. He doesn’t know Steve, and it’s so surreal, Steve doesn’t understand what is happening to him. But time hasn’t stopped moving, and he needs to show some reaction aside from just standing there stupidly. 

After they finish shaking hands, Steve stutters out, “It’s…it’s nice to meet you. We really need the help around here.”

Darcy nods in agreement. “You’re saving Clint’s life, actually.” 

Bucky smiles easily at her, and Steve can hardly breathe. 

“That’s what I’m here for,” Bucky replies. 

Steve hasn’t stopped staring since Bucky first turned around. He clears his throat nervously. “So then, um, you’ve had some orientation already then?”

“Been shadowing Clint or Tony all day, pretty much,” Bucky states, hooking his thumb in the other PA’s direction. “Think I’ll be okay tomorrow seeing Tony’s patients.”

“Where is he, anyway?” Steve asks the group at large, peering around. His partner is certainly not one to shy away from social interaction. 

“He took off already,” Clint volunteers. “His daughter had that recital tonight, remember?”

“Oh yeah!” Now Steve remembers. Tony and his wife, Pepper, a willowy blonde, had two daughters in elementary school, and they were his _life_. Tony was the definition of “family man,” so if there was any way he could make it to school or extracurricular functions, he flew out of work like a bat out of hell, sometimes not bothering with the train but instead driving in that day in his solar car. 

So since Tony had office visits today he would be in surgery tomorrow, leaving Steve, Clint and Bucky in the office together. They were _co-workers_ now, he and Bucky, which Steve found titillating and nerve-wracking at the same time. He can’t tell Bucky about the dreams. That would be too weird. He’s got to pretend he’s never seen him before. The good part is that he’ll have the chance to get to know the man behind the face. For a whole six months. And that’s _amazing._

“Steve.” 

He tears his eyes from Bucky, realizing someone else spoke his name, and looks around the room. Clint’s eyes are on him and they look suspicious, like he knows something’s up. _Fuck_ , he curses internally, hoping Bucky hasn’t noticed anything unusual either, like the fact that Steve is apparently obsessed with him. 

“What?” he says out loud.

“You about ready to get out of here?”

Clint’s words don’t betray any feeling, but Steve knows those eyes, and the eyes don’t lie. 

“Yeah,” he tosses back casually, and looks back at Bucky. “You taking the loop home?”

The loop was the slang term for the train’s east/west circuitous route, the one Steve, Clint and Sam took. There was also the northern route people referred to as the point, because of its vaguely triangular shape, and the southern route that went down as far as some farm territory. That one, which Sam took occasionally for work, was affectionately known as the chicken run. 

But they’re talking about the loop right now. Bucky smiles but shakes his head at Steve. “Normally, yes, but I need to go find my sister. She works in the neuro wing?”

It’s a statement, but sounds more like a question, owing to the lilt in his voice at the end. Before he can stop himself, Steve hears himself say, “Do you need help finding it?”

He feels other eyes in the room settle on him, though he can’t seem to care, or look away from the brunet. 

Bucky smiles back engagingly. “Thanks,” he says sincerely, and pushes off the desk to stand up. “But I don’t want to keep you when you’ve been in surgery all day and must be exhausted. I can find my way.”

Clint snorts. “So when you don’t show tomorrow, we’ll know you’re still circling the halls over in neuro.”

Darcy chuckles. It’s not a dig on Bucky himself. The neurology “wing” is really an entire, _enormous_ building. Bucky appears to be quick on the draw, though. 

“North neuro is so big it’s got its own damn zip code.”

“So you were at North Center before you came here?” Steve inquires, trying to gather as much information about the newcomer as he can, before they all leave for the night. 

“That’s right,” Bucky responds, and Clint walks over to Steve, slapping him once on the back. 

“Come on, Sherlock, I’ll fill you in on all the gory details on the train.” He salutes the others, and Steve notices the shy smile that crosses Bucky’s face upon hearing Clint’s words. “See you tomorrow, then?”

The party breaks up then, amidst a chorus of _uh huh’s_. 

Clint waits until he and Steve are clear of the building to ask, voice pitched low but highly interested, “Alright, Steve, give it up. What the hell was going on back there?”

Walking next to Clint on the crowded sidewalk, Steve looks at him sideways and tries to bluff. “What…what do you mean?”

Clint chuckles. “Don’t bullshit me. Something had you rattled, and it wasn’t just because our new PA is on the somewhat attractive side.”

Steve lets out a sigh. “Somewhat?”

A laugh is drawn from his companion. “Okay, absurdly attractive side. But you can’t tell me that was all it was.”

“Okay, it wasn’t…but I can’t tell you until we get on the train.” 

They’re already approaching the metal stairs to the raised platform, but Clint grouses anyway. “Aww, come on, man!”

As they pound up the stairs with metallic clunks of their feet on the steps, Steve hushes him. “Just wait!”

They pile in through the open doors and start toward the back of the train; Steve scans the taken seats to make sure Sam isn’t in there. It’s a long shot, but once in a while it does happen that they get on at the same time. Today isn’t one of those days, though. No familiar faces. He and Clint find some empty seats and plop down alone, and Clint leans in toward him eagerly. 

Steve opens his mouth to speak…and shuts it again. How can he say this without sounding crazy? 

“Clint, I know this is gonna sound crazy, but I’ve seen Bucky’s face before.”

Clint makes a confused face. “So? Why is that such a big deal?”

“No. Not like, his actual face.” Steve holds his hands up and touches his own cheeks, talking with his hands as he thinks. “I’ve only seen him in my dreams.”

“Pppfffttt.” Clint sits back, looking disappointed. “Geez, Rogers, you had me all worked up, thinking this was a big mystery, and you just think he’s _dreamy?_ Whatever, princess.” He kicks one foot up on the empty seat across from them. 

“NO, asshole!” Steve exclaims, shaking his head. “You’re not _getting it_.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I mean I’ve been seeing his face _in my dreams_ for months now. Only his face.”

“What?”

“I’ve been seeing Bucky’s face at night, in my sleep. For months. And I never knew who he was until now.”

Clint’s foot drops back to the ground. “Are you fucking shitting me?”

Steve leans back, letting his head hit the cold vinyl seat behind him. “I swear, it’s the truth.”

Clint blinks at him a few times as the train doors whoosh shut and it lurches into a slow crawl. “You’ve been seeing his face.”

Steve nods.

“In dreams.”

Another nod. 

“Well what the fuck.”

 _Exactly my sentiments,_ Steve thinks silently, as the train starts picking up speed. 

\--

After Clint fills Steve in on whatever information he gleaned from Bucky that day (he’s single, given name James but nobody ever calls him that, graduated from a different college than the one Steve and Clint attended, just two years after Steve did, and was at North Center as a PA until now), he decides to stay with Steve on the train and go right to his place with him, so they can tell Sam about the new development. Steve had texted him to see if he was home already, which he was. 

On the elevator ride up to the eighteenth floor, Clint asks dubiously, “Are you going to tell Bucky about this?”

Steve pulls a face. “Fuck no! And you’re not either,” he says, stabbing an index finger at him. “He’d think I was a lunatic.”

Clint leans back against the wall casually. “My lips are sealed.”

“Thanks, man.” Steve knew he could trust Clint to keep his mouth shut. After all, he’d never told anyone about that time the two of them were at that bar and got so drunk they threw up on each other, then had to walk home shirtless, did he? Now that was a true friend if there ever was one.

Arriving at Steve’s floor with a loud ding, the elevator deposits them in the hallway and they stride down purposefully to Sam’s door, not even bothering to go to Steve’s apartment first. Sam admits entry to them and they pile into the living room. Steve had warned him by text they were coming over, but hadn’t said why. Glancing around furtively but not seeing Fluffy anywhere, Steve’s shoulders droop in relaxation as he sinks down on the couch. 

He repeats what he said to Clint on the train and waits for Sam’s response. It’s a lot like Clint’s. 

“Fucking hell?”

Clint nods. “Exactly.”

Sam sits back, looking thoughtful. “Not to say I told you so, but I’m just gonna put it out there that _I told you so!_ ” 

The corners of Steve’s mouth turn down as he says warily, “Told me what?” 

“Duh, that there are mind readers out there! I wonder how he got inside the city walls.”

Ignoring the gurgle he hears from his smug co-worker, Steve closes his eyes and groans. 

“Inside the walls, you say?” Clint encourages him knowingly.

“Yeah.” Sam shifts his weight forward and puts his elbows on his knees, though Steve doesn’t see that because his eyes are still shut tight. “He had to have come here from _outside!_ It’s the only answer.”

Steve pulls out his cell phone, wordlessly types in a command, then holds out a hand for Clint’s. Clint giggles and hands his over, waits for Steve to slide the screens together, then takes it back. 

“Thank you very much,” he says with satisfaction, waves it once at Sam and then chucks it into his own pocket. “Ten bucks said you’d say that.”

Sam is vehement. “That bet was only worth ten bucks to you, Clint? That’s insulting, man.” 

Clint laughs, while Steve buries his chin in his chest. 

“So when do I get to meet him?”

Clint and Steve look at each other dumbly.

“I want to meet him,” Sam repeats, rubbing his hands together. “He had to have put that thought into your head, Steve, and I’ve never met a mind reader before.”

Clint and Steve both are shaking their heads.

“That’s not how mind reading works, Sam,” is Steve’s pragmatic response.

Clint is more philosophical. “Why would anyone do that?” 

Sam’s gaze goes from one to the other. “Firstly, how do you know how mind reading works, Steve? And secondly, how should I know why he would do it? I’m just telling you he _did_. He’ll have to be the one to tell you why.”

Steve’s mouth twitches. “I’m not _telling him!_ And you can’t either.”

Sam’s mouth falls open. “What? You have to!”

“Are you insane? No I don’t!”

Snapping his jaw shut, Sam sits back again and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “You can’t just ignore this and pretend it hasn’t happened.”

Crossing his own arms in front of his chest, Steve declares, “Watch me.” Out of the corner of his eye he sees movement near the floor. There is a grey blur as Fluffy jumps onto the couch at the other end and climbs onto Clint’s lap. He immediately sits down and curls up into a ball, purring as Clint strokes his back. Stupid cat loves Clint.

“Don’t you want to know why he did it? How he did it?” Sam asks. Steve rolls his eyes and stays silent, so Sam next appeals to Clint. “Back me up here, Clint. It had to be Bucky, right?”

Clint holds up his hands in front of him, abandoning Fluffy for the moment. “You’re on your own, pal.”

“What? Then you explain it,” Sam protests hotly, and Clint shakes his head. 

“I can’t explain it, but here’s a spoiler alert: there’s no such thing as _mind reading_.” 

“You two are just in denial,” Sam insists.

“No, I’m not,” Steve insists, and ignores the pointed look Sam bestows on him. He’s _not._ Really. There has to be a better explanation for what’s going on. He just can’t think of one right this second. 

\--

The next morning Steve wakes with Bucky’s image fresh in his mind. It’s almost a relief to have a name to go with the face, but it still doesn’t make it any less strange, or the idea of Bucky reading his thoughts any less creepy, frankly. And he’s still not going to say anything to him about it, no matter what Sam says. He tries to put it out of his mind as he and Clint arrive at work and grab their lab coats from their lockers. 

For the most he thinks he’s successful, because it’s the morning from hell that day. Patients are late. Patients are crabby and demanding. He’s barely got time to breathe, much less worry about his new physician assistant seeing into his brain. He mostly runs into Bucky when they’re both going in and out of rooms or are up front writing scripts for patients, but every time he does, he feels his stress level go down a notch. Bucky is smiling every time he sees him. All the time. Like he’s exactly where he wants to be and there’s nothing that can sour his mood, not even patients who are mean as sabre tooth tigers. 

At one point during the hectic morning, Steve runs to the supply closet for a knee brace and finds Bucky in there already, searching the shelves for an ankle brace. The closet is deep but narrow, owing to the tall shelving units on both sides. Steve’s got his eyes on Bucky’s broad-shouldered back and rather misjudges the distance between them. As he tries to sidle past the other occupant of the room, his chest to Bucky’s back, he rubs against him. Pretty noticeably. Purely accidentally. Really! And shit, Bucky’s upper back is solid muscle. Steve’s nipples actually pebble up as they make contact.

Embarrassed, he breathes out an “Oh, sorry!”; Bucky looks away from the box of braces he was poring over and right at Steve’s reddened face. His expression is calm, almost amused as he jokes in reply, “Didn’t hurt.” 

“Oh, good,” Steve mutters for lack of anything else intelligent to say, and buries his face in some braces on the other side of the closet. 

It takes a good long time for those nips to calm back down, and an even longer time for the butterflies in his stomach to settle back down. It’s crazy how much Bucky does it for him, and they’ve only just met. Just being near him sets off fireworks under his skin. For the rest of the morning, it’s just brief snippets of a dark ponytail here and there, flashing around doorways, until lunch time. That’s when they have a chance to hold real conversation. Tony will grab something in between procedures when he can, but the other three of them walk down to the cafeteria to get in line, picking up empty plastic trays. 

It’s a huge room with several different stations offering varying entrees, sides, and desserts. Invariably, Sam heads to the soup and salad area. Sometimes Steve goes with him, sometimes not. As an enthusiastic carnivore, there are just some days he wants a nice piece of red meat. His eyes shift over to the man next to him at the burger station. Apparently Bucky is a carnivore, too. So far, their conversation on the way down there had all been work related, but Steve wants to switch that up. 

“So, did you have any trouble finding your sister last night?”

They’ve both already put in their orders to the uniformed staffer behind the counter and are waiting for their food. Bucky’s eyes land on Steve’s as he answers, “No, she texted me really specific directions, so it was no problem.” 

“What part of neuro does she work in?”

“Clinical Neurophysiology. She does MR’s mostly.” 

Steve’s burger and fries appear and he absentmindedly thanks the staffer as he slides the heavy glass plate onto his tray. If he had gone to the neurology department for his MRI he may have seen Bucky’s sister, but he had deliberately chosen to go to the location closest to orthopedics, since he knew the technicians there. And because he disliked the head of neurology.

“Huh,” he says out loud. “I just had an MR done, but not in neurology.”

“Oh?” Bucky inquires, shifting his weight to his other foot. “Why did you need one, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Steve shakes his head dismissively. “Just some headaches that have been bothering me, and my doc wanted to rule out anything serious.”

Bucky’s food has been delivered to him too, a giant cheeseburger with a mound of French fries, so they move over to the drink station, sliding their trays along on the silver bars provided. “And...serious things were ruled out?”

Bucky’s cool blue eyes are on him as they sidestep their way to the fountain drinks, waiting behind a couple of other people. Steve smiles in spite of himself, telling himself it’s just politeness that is prompting Bucky to ask, nothing more. They don’t even know each other, so it can’t be anything more…but it still feels good to have him ask. 

“Yeah. They’re just migraines, that’s all.”

In front of him, Bucky picks up a cup from the mountain of them piled at the side of the drink machine and holds it under the ice maker. Noisily it starts spitting out small ice cubes into his cup. “Migraines can be serious,” Bucky says loudly, over the racket. 

He finishes and moves over to the water while Steve fills up his cup with ice. “Yeah, well, they’re under control,” he returns, just as loudly. 

Okay, so that’s maybe a little bit of a fib, but Steve’s never been one to complain much, or draw attention to himself that way. Everyone’s got their own shit to deal with, and he’s not going to dump his on someone he just met. 

Steve fills up with water too and they pass through the scanner line quickly to pay for their food. Clint waves from an empty table, having gotten through the soup and salad line much faster than they could, having their food made to order. Steve nods in his direction and says, “Over there,” to Bucky before picking his way carefully through the maze of tables, all crowded with people. The noise level in the room is a low din. 

They have a square four-top table near the huge bank of windows that look out on the back side of the complex, where a large pond with two water fountains sits. It’s a popular spot for geese and ducks to congregate, with a paved walking trail for people around it that for most of the year is covered in goose and duck poop. Still, the setting is pretty to look at. 

As they join Clint at the table, Bucky plucks his phone out of his lab coat pocket, reads a message on the home screen, and smiles. “Nat’s on her way down,” he announces cheerfully. 

Clint recognizes the questioning look in Steve’s eyes and answers before he can even speak. “Sister.” 

“Oh!” Steve exclaims. So they’ll get to meet his sister, too, which is nice. 

After slurping some soup into his mouth and swallowing, Clint asks, “So how long has your sister been in the MR department here?”

Pushing down a spike of jealousy (apparently Clint had a lot of time for conversation with Bucky yesterday, lucky dog!), Steve turns to Bucky and waits for his answer. 

Bucky puts down his burger and chews before he tries to respond. Christ, is his mouth pretty. He has just a little bit of stubble, which gives him a dangerous, reckless appearance Steve finds obscenely sexy. 

“Oh, she just came here a few days before I did, only her assignment is permanent. She’s one of the reasons I took this spot.”

“Is that right?” Clint comments casually, and his eyes follow Bucky’s as he looks off behind them and waves at someone. 

“She’s getting in line,” Bucky explains, turning his attention back to his companions. “How long have you both been here?”

Conversation continues, but inside Steve’s head, wheels are turning. Bucky seems completely normal, as far as brain abilities go. He doesn’t _seem_ to be putting any thoughts into Steve’s head, but then again, how would he know if he was? _Stop it. You are being ridiculous._ The whole idea seems pretty far-fetched when Bucky is right there in front of him, talking to him, but Steve still has no real explanation for his dreams. And he doesn’t like uncertainty. 

They meet Natasha, an athletic-looking redhead who bounces over to their table and sits down with a smile. She’s got a Greek salad and a yogurt parfait on her tray, and her green eyes linger on her brother’s plate for a moment after all the greetings are out of the way. 

“Bro…” she says disdainfully. “Second day and you’ve already hit up the burger line? What happened to…” she imitates Bucky’s voice in a deep tone, “…I’m going to try and eat healthy while we’re here.” 

Bucky makes a face of pure innocence and points at Steve’s tray. “I just got what he got.” 

Steve and Clint both laugh; Natasha’s face clearly reads like she’s not buying that at all. “He’s got a salad,” she points out, dropping her eyes to Clint’s tray. 

In response Bucky picks up his burger and takes a big bite, and Steve follows suit in solidarity. He wonders if Bucky is a junk-food addict; he _looks_ like he eats healthy enough. In fact, he looks like he’s in incredible shape. Without the lab coat on, his chest and arms in his scrub top are muscular and toned, and Steve could tell by the way his thighs filled out his scrub bottoms that they were equally muscular. He can already vouch for his back muscles. A burger here and there shouldn’t be anything to worry about. All things in moderation.

Steve knows this from personal experience; he’s got a big, athletic frame himself, and it takes a certain caloric intake level to keep his motor running. Too much crap food certainly wasn’t good for anyone, but hey, a guy’s gotta _eat_. 

Swallowing down his mouthful of burger, Bucky tells her, “It was kind of a rough morning. My body needed comfort food!”

“Rough!” Steve exclaims. “Every time I saw you, you were smiling. You didn’t look ruffled at all!”

“It’s a gift,” Bucky jokes. “Are those your typical morning’s patients?”

“Hell no!” Clint says bluntly. “Must be a fucking full moon today!”

Bucky nods and looks to Steve for confirmation, who looks at his own burger, held in both hands in front of his face. 

“Comfort food,” Steve affirms, and takes a big bite, ketchup and mustard squirting out around the edges of the thick burger nestled inside an even thicker sourdough bun. 

Next to him, Clint snickers. “I don’t know about Bucky, but Steve here can eat a side of beef without even slowing down.”

Natasha forks some salad down and nods, licking her lips. “That’s how he is, too!” she agrees, sounding like it’s an affront to her personally. 

Steve’s glad she doesn’t tack on a fishing-for-compliments statement like, “All I do is look at food and I gain weight,” like some women would. Natasha doesn’t look like she needs to fish though; Bucky’s sister is petite, slender and in great shape. Despite her small size, she looks like she could beat people up without breaking a sweat. _Kickboxing_ , he thinks. She looks like she does kickboxing. 

“What gym have you been assigned to?” he asks curiously, looking from Natasha to her brother. Every employee was given a health club membership and was expected to use it. Not that that actually _happened_ , of course, but Clint, Sam and Steve went regularly. 

“The one on Fourth and Maple,” Bucky tells him, and Steve’s eyes light up. That’s his gym!

“What rotation?” Clint puts forth, which was just what Steve was about to ask. 

_Please say B. Please say B,_ he thinks. 

“B.”

 _HOT DAMN!_ Steve almost drops the fries he was about to mow on. “That’s ours!” he states happily, and bites down on half a dozen fries, drenched in salt. Sweet, he’ll have a built in excuse to see Bucky regularly, even outside of the work day. That couldn’t have panned out better! 

“Great!” Bucky smiles at him, and breath stutters in Steve’s chest. Criminy, that smile. That mouth. He starts thinking of all the wicked things that mouth could do to him, with those luscious red lips, and has to reel himself back in when it starts getting warm inside his pants. 

He manages to make it through the rest of lunch without getting a boner, thankfully, and when the four of them break up, he still feels like both Bucky and his sister are just regular people. No red flags have gone up, which Sam would probably say was a red flag in and of itself. Steve can hear him now. 

“They’re _too_ normal…it’s not _normal_ ,” he would whisper conspiratorially. 

_Shut up,_ Steve tells imaginary Sam. He’s been waiting all day for something paranormal to happen, and it simply hasn’t. Bucky is a normal guy. A really hot, normal guy, who makes Steve think excessively happy (and horny) thoughts. There’s nothing unusual about him, dreams or no dreams. Sam will see.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam gets the chance to meet Bucky, and torment his buddy Steve at the same time. Meanwhile, Steve is wrestling with his attraction for their new PA, uncertain what he should do. And Bucky? He just wants some chip dip.

Chapter Three

It’s the day Steve’s been dreading. His palms start sweating when he thinks about it. _Gym day_ for rotation B. It’s not that he hates working out, because he usually enjoys working up a sweat and burning off any frustration or worry related to work. Staying fit is pretty important to him, too, being in the medical field. He would find it pretty hypocritical to tell patients they needed to lose weight to relieve pressure on their joints if he was a fat slob himself. 

So normally, he wouldn’t react like this at all. It’s all Sam’s fault. He’s been dropping monster hints that he’s going to embarrass himself and Steve thoroughly by spilling the beans to Bucky. Normally he’d think Sam was bluffing, but knowing how much the man loves all that conspiracy shit is really freaking him out. He wants to tell the newcomer that it’s not a good day to go work out, but can’t come up with a plausible excuse. Giant invading slugs? Hordes of vampire bats? No. His only chance is for Sam to fall into some quicksand and become trapped on the way to the gym.

In the evening, close to their appointed time, Clint has arrived at Sam’s place and they walk the short distance to the gym, coming up on the tall, multi-colored glass building much too quickly for Steve’s liking. He eyes the sidewalk as Sam and Clint surge ahead of him. No quicksand in sight. Steve already had tried hemming and hawing about going. Sam saw through that immediately and had yanked him unceremoniously out the door with him. He and Clint have already pulled the glass doors of the gym open and stepped in; Steve can’t drag his feet forever, so he reluctantly follows them. 

The gym takes up the bottom three floors of the building. The first floor houses the locker rooms for changing and showering, plus an Olympic sized pool. The three of them head into the men’s locker room and stash their bags in the metal, boxy lockers that fill the walls and stand in free rows down the center of the room. Steve always uses the same locker and is only slightly irritated whenever his usual spot happens to be taken, as it is right now.

As he tosses his bag into an adjacent one and fumbles with his combination lock, he asks plaintively, “Sam, please?”

A gap-toothed grin appears next to his open locker door. “Don’t you _‘Sam, please’_ me, I can’t wait to meet this cat!”

Clint’s bubbly laughter floats over to Steve from Sam’s other side. “It’s not the meeting part he’s worried about, it’s the secret-blowing part.”

Sam’s got his stuff tucked away and shuts his locker door. “Knowing a telepath is cool, Steve. Embrace it.”

Steve shuts his locker door and snaps the lock on. “Can’t I just stick some forks in my eyes and we’ll call it a day?”

Leaning back against the wall of lockers, Sam crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t be such a baby. Besides, it’s not a secret. Bucky knows exactly what he’s done to Steve. I just want him to admit it.”

Moaning, Steve leans forward and lets his head thunk against the door. “Noooooooooooooo,” he groans, turns around so his back is against the door, and looks to the ceiling.

Next to him, Sam laughs. “Oh, you’re getting me right in the feels.”

Steve moans again for good measure and turns his head to his buddy as he laughs even louder.

“Would you chill out?” Sam says. “I’m not gonna blow your top-secret secrety-secret.”

Picking up his head, Steve looks at Sam. “You’re not?”

“No, you dumbass. Would I do that to you?”

Steve blows air out through his mouth noisily. “Thanks, man.”

Pushing off of the lockers to stand, Sam turns to him. “You’re going to have to tell him eventually though, you know that, right?”

Steve pushes off as well, seeing that Clint is ready to go. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

Sam snorts out loud. “You mean you’ll bury your head in the sand and pretend it doesn’t exist.”

Steve smiles in a self-deprecating way. “Yeah. That’s what I said.”

They exit the locker room and climb the nearby wide set of stairs to the second floor, where the aerobic and weight equipment is housed. The third floor is for the basketball court. In this section, rows of treadmills, bikes and elliptical machines are situated close to the windows at the front of the huge room. It gives the user a good view of the street below, but every machine has a little television attached to the front of it anyway, for those who don’t want to gaze outside. There are quite a few people on the aerobic machines, and more in the space Steve and his friends are heading for. 

The second area encompasses a large rectangular space with black rubber matting covering the floor and mirrors floor to ceiling along the back wall. There are weight machines as well as free weights in this space. It’s here they spy Natasha and Bucky from across the room, messing around with a squat rack. The petite woman appears to be readying herself for some squats, with an impressive amount of weight on the bar, while Bucky stands nearby. His back is to Steve, his t-shirt stretched across his broad, strong-looking shoulders. 

“There,” Steve says under his breath to Sam. “The redhead and the guy with his back to us, in the blue shirt.”

“That’s them?” Sam whispers, and stares openly. “They look pretty normal,” he states, and Steve just starts to relax when the other shoe drops. Sam’s eyes narrow and he adds, “That’s just what I would expect from someone in hiding.”

Clint chortles and slings an arm around Steve’s neck. “And you thought he was going to be unreasonable.”

Steve sighs and Sam laughs before adding, “Relax. He wants to pretend he’s an average Joe, just down from North Center, I’ll play along for a while.”

Steve’s glad to hear that, though privately he thinks Bucky is anything but average. As they approach the pair, Natasha sees them coming, smiles, and says something to her brother, who turns and also smiles. 

“Hey guys,” he says in greeting, and Steve introduces his buddy.

“Natasha, Bucky, this is my friend Sam.”

They all exchange greetings and Steve is relieved that Sam doesn’t make any cracks about Bucky and his supposed telepathic abilities, not immediately anyway. They all go about their work-outs, moving from one piece of equipment to another. Clint and Steve have their ear buds in, listening to music like they usually do. Sam, however, forgot to bring his…or so he says. Steve spots him on several occasions speaking to Bucky or Natasha when he’s on a machine next to one of them. 

It’s unnerving. 

Steve almost can’t enjoy surreptitiously watching Bucky flex and bend and generally look as sexy as one person can look while pumping iron. _Almost_ can’t enjoy it. Bucky’s muscle tone is a thing of beauty and downright demands attention: rippling muscles under smooth skin, covered with a light sheen of sweat. _Gorgeous._

He’s glad he’s got an excuse to be breathing hard, because watching Bucky is a form of exercise all its own. Sitting at a leg press station, he’s got a pretty good view of the object of his desire doing some bicep curls with free weights. Then suddenly Sam’s big head blocks his view, as he leans in and says something to the brunet. As Sam leans back again Steve can see Bucky smile and say something in return. 

What the hell could they be so chatty about? Later on, when Bucky and his sister have taken off, he makes it a point to ask Sam what they were talking about. Sam merely grins and claims he was “just getting to know him.” 

“That’s what worries me,” Steve replies, pressing his lips together. 

\--

Friday morning. Steve’s definitely NOT dreading this day—it’s his favorite work day, because both he and Tony are in the office together seeing patients; nobody from their office does surgeries on Friday. Plus on top of that, the office closes earlier than usual. Steve and Sam hop on the train in the morning as usual, Sam is grumpily slurping down coffee as usual, and one stop over Clint hops on as usual too—but he’s not alone. That’s unusual. 

Steve breaks into a giant smile when he sees Bucky board the train right behind Clint. Dropping into a seat across from Steve, Clint announces in a chipper voice, “Guess who I found at my train stop this morning?”

Bucky has dropped down into a vinyl covered chair next to him. “Mornin’,” he says affably.

Steve is expecting to be the only one with anything intelligible to say back, so he is highly surprised when Sam perks up and answers, “Morning!” in a voice that’s bright as the sun. What? Where did grumpy Sam go? Both Steve and Clint look at him; he’s actually _set his coffee down_ in favor of joining in on conversation. They then look at each other, shock registering on their faces.

Sam ignores the stares of his two friends and addresses Bucky directly. “So, I see you found the stop?”

“Yeah!” Bucky confirms, and looks at Clint and Steve. “Nat and I didn’t realize there was a train stop over here. We were going around our building to the one further back on the line.”

“And _Sam_ told you about this one?” Steve sputters, and Bucky nods, taking a drink from his own travel mug. 

Steve turns to his seatmate. Sam has a smug look on his face; so smug that Steve can’t help but smile and shake his head. 

“I continually underestimate you,” he jokes under his breath, and a grin splits Sam’s face. 

“Every fucking time, baby,” he returns with a nod of his head and a wink, before turning back to Bucky. “Where’s your sister this morning?”

“Sleeping—she’s off today.”

Sam nods and picks up steam. “So, Buck, about that pizza place we were talking about…”

\--

After Steve has seen his last patient of the day, he is sitting up in the front office area finishing up some dictation when Tony and Bucky emerge from an exam room with an elderly woman in tow. Must be their last patient as well. They’re walking on either side of her, as if worried she’ll take a spill. There is a long counter about four feet high separating the hallway from the interior of the office area. Bucky comes around the end of the counter and beelines towards Steve, while Tony follows the woman all the way to the door to see her out. 

Steve can hear snippets of his conversation with her, which sounds mostly like an offer to set “that cutie-pie” Bucky up with an available granddaughter, because she “really needs some great grands soon.” Tony’s face is barely contained glee, while Bucky looks red as a beet. Darcy must have heard the proposition from her seat at the front desk too, because she’s making a Herculean effort not to burst out laughing. Steve’s having trouble too, only because Bucky looks like he wants to crawl into a hole, and it’s adorable. 

“Bucky, you okay?” Steve asks quietly, as the woman disappears through the door. He has to bite his lip to keep from snickering. 

Sitting down next to him, Bucky puts his head down on the desk and moans. Darcy has her fist stuffed in her mouth as Tony saunters over, a huge smile on his face. He strokes his goatee once. 

“So, Casanova, first week and already hitting up patients for their available granddaughters? _Shameless._ ” 

Bucky’s voice is muffled by desk. “I hate my life.” His long hair is loose today and tumbling down around his face, effectively hiding it. 

Steve is intensely curious as to whether Bucky’s objections to being fixed up are because it would be a blind date, because it’s a _female_ he would be out with, because it’s a patient involved, or a combination of all three. Tony and Darcy have plenty to say on the matter, though, before he can get in a word edgewise. 

“Why didn’t you just tell her you were unavailable?” Tony asks.

“I did! She wouldn’t listen!” Bucky picks his head up and sets his chin on the desk instead. 

Steve’s heart sinks. Bucky’s taken? He didn’t mention anyone special, any long term relationship, or long-distance relationship for that matter. There’s no ring on his finger, but of course that might not mean anything. It’s a cold, hard truth Steve was hoping he wouldn’t have to face. 

“And _are_ you unavailable?” Darcy wants to know, turning around in her desk chair. 

_Bless you_ , thinks Steve. He tries not to look _too_ interested in Bucky’s reply, but when Bucky answers with a contrite “No,” Steve’s spirits soar. _Come on Darcy, more. Ask more._

It’s Tony who helps him out this time. “Granny there might not be the best judge of date material, I’ll give you that,” he pipes up. “But I’m great at playing Cupid, just ask Steve!”

Steve’s silence is broken then, because he snorts derisively and turns to give Tony the evil eye. “No, you most certainly are NOT!”

Darcy shakes her head sadly. “I gotta go with Steve on this one.”

“What!?” Tony squawks, hands on hips. “What are you talking about?”

Steve notices that Bucky’s head has lifted off the table and that he’s looking in his direction. Does Bucky care who Steve is dating? He feels a flutter in his chest, and it distracts him momentarily from heckling his friend. 

He shakes his head to get back on track. “For real, Tony,” Steve jibes him. “Did you even _know_ the last blind date you set me up on?”

Tony fidgets in his spot and sticks his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. “Well, no,” he admits. “He’s the cousin of Pepper’s hairdresser’s boyfriend. Why, was something wrong with him?” 

Hearing Bucky chuckling next to him, Steve wags his head at his partner. “He only showed up at the restaurant in a shirt unbuttoned to his navel, with five gold chains around his neck.”

Tony has the decency to wince. Darcy almost howls with laughter. “He _didn’t_!” 

“He most certainly did,” Steve affirms, and sneaks a glance at Bucky, who has a sympathetic smile on his face. 

“Nat set me up once with a guy whose hobby was doing magic tricks,” he shares. 

Steve allows himself to grin. Actually he’s grinning because Bucky said _a guy_ , meaning he’s bi or gay, but he plays it off otherwise. “Well, that _could_ be cool, right?” Bucky shakes his head slowly but emphatically, so Steve adds, “Not cool, huh.”

“So not cool.” 

They spend the next few seconds looking each other over, sort of appraisingly, and a slow warmth is infused into Steve’s body. It’s a feeling he hasn’t had in a while: an eagerness to get to know someone new, mixed with the joy of thinking maybe they feel the same way. It’s exciting, and a little scary, and a long time coming. He’s ready to not be alone, ready to let someone in. Maybe that someone could be Bucky. 

It’s something he’s daydreamed about, long before Bucky, or even visions of Bucky, came along. Finding someone. He starts to drift off into that realm as conversation resumes again around him. He and Bucky, together. An image of the two of them, pressing their lips together in a long, soft, slow kiss, flits in and out of his head, followed immediately by a quick pitter-patter of his heart, beating rapidly in his chest. 

The possibility stirs something inside him, but it also begins a tug of war. What if he and Bucky start something, and it doesn’t work out? His professional life is important to him, and bringing drama into the office would be awful. It’s not a good idea to get involved with a co-worker; everyone knows that. He’s not technically Bucky’s boss though; he and Tony are responsible for the well-being of the staff in their office, but neither of them can promote (or fire, for that matter) anyone. 

Office romances in the building did happen and were usually kept on the DL by the people involved. But did they ever really work out over the long haul? He didn’t know of any that did. His sensible side knows all of this, but he can’t really bring himself to care very much about that where Bucky is concerned. 

Funny thing is, Steve’s never thought of himself as a risk-taker. Steady, dedicated, and honest, yes. Throwing caution to the wind? No. But as he looks at Bucky, and recalls the good feeling he has every time he wakes with his image in his head, he wants to explore those possibilities and see where they lead, risks be damned. 

After all, they won’t be co-workers forever, right? And how else is he supposed to figure out why he’s been seeing Bucky’s face for months? Why he draws him in? It only makes sense to learn more about him. The pull he feels—there has to be a reason behind it. He needs to know what it is. 

The only niggling bit of doubt he has is that he’ll get in over his head. Can he trust the dark-haired stranger? That’s an unknown right now, but he has his friends to lean on and give him advice if he finds himself in trouble. He’s always been able to see people and situations for what they are. He may not be the most daring guy around, but he’s not stupid. He should be able to figure this out. Right?

\--

For the next couple of weeks, Steve takes things slowly. Bucky, too, seems in no rush to push their relationship as friends and co-workers to another level. When they pass each other in the hallway Bucky still smiles all of the time, and now Steve smiles back just as eagerly. He makes it a point to find him in the lunchroom, even on surgery days if he can. They talk at the office frequently, whenever they can sneak in time: in between patients, at lunch, at the end of the day. Wherever. And it’s nice. 

Bucky is not only a good PA, he’s thoughtful and has a quirky sense of humor that Steve likes. He also likes it when Bucky touches his elbow or shoulder to get his attention or point something out. Steve’s not really a hugger, but Bucky has him re-thinking that attitude. His touch is gentle and sure, and makes Steve wonder what his hands would feel like on other parts of his body. _Really_ wonder. Sometimes he’s sure Bucky _is_ reading his mind when he catches Steve staring at him, oblivious to what he just asked or said. His eyes go all soft and there’s this little, shy smile on his face that makes Steve feel completely transparent. 

Aside from work, they also get time together on the train, because thanks to Sam they see each other there every morning and evening. Sam has even been true to his word, as has Clint, and doesn’t embarrass Steve, except for the wacky conspiracy theories he’s been sharing. Steve could swear, he’s trying them out in front of Bucky and Natasha just to see if he can get a rise, as proof of his other theory that the pair are secretly from outside Sanctuary. 

His latest one was something about how people in the outlying districts didn’t have real teeth any longer, because one of the pandemics caused successive generations to have damage at the nerve roots. Sam had said (with a perfectly straight face) that children all had to have dental implants at a young age.

“When their baby teeth come out, there aren’t any adult teeth to come in behind them,” he explained, sounding dead serious. 

What kind of bullshit was that? It was unbelievable, how Sam could spew this stuff and sound like he completely believed it! Steve isn’t sure what kind of reaction he was hoping for, but suspected it probably wasn’t the polite head nods and suppressed smiles he saw. Clint called him an idiot outright. Natasha and her brother weren’t so rude; they took all of Sam’s stories in stride, even started to tease him (though not as viciously as Clint), once they all became more familiar with each other. 

That didn’t take long at all, Steve reflects, as he, Clint and Bucky leave the office together one evening. In just the short amount of time Bucky has been there, Steve already feels like he’s one of the group, a natural part of his circle of friends. They board the train and are talking about an upcoming picnic that Tony had planned for them all out at his lake house. Steve loves going to the lake house. The wide open spaces and quietness of the countryside are such a sweet departure from the rush of the city. 

He’s just telling Bucky about the house itself, an old farmhouse set surprisingly close to the edge of a lake, when he feels it coming. A headache. The pain is intense when it sets in. Steve leaves off in the middle of a sentence, closing his eyes and wincing. One hand goes to his head. 

Bucky, sitting across from him, calls out an uncertain, “Steve?” while Clint, no stranger to his symptoms, knows immediately what’s wrong. 

He jumps out of his seat. “Steve, here, lie down,” he says softly, over the minimal noise of the train’s engine. 

He takes Steve’s forearms and guides him down to lie on his side across both seats. Bucky is out of his seat, too, in a deep squat in front of the blond.

“Steve, what is it?” he asks, looking first at Steve, then at Clint.

“Migraine.”

In a distant way, Steve hears the word come out of Clint’s mouth, but it doesn’t really register. He’s in agony, and it hit so fast. This one gave him hardly any warning. He knows he’s hyperventilating and has to slow down his breathing. His head is throbbing, so much that it’s hard to concentrate on what people are saying around him. He thinks he hears Bucky speak his name a few times before he’s even able to open his eyes and tune in to him.

“Steve,” Bucky says again, now seeing Steve’s eyes come into focus. His own blue eyes are full of concern. “I know an osteopathic remedy. Can I try it?”

Steve nods. Osteopathic? Sure. _Anything._ Steve will hang upside down by his toes if someone says it will cure his headache. He recognizes that Bucky just said something else to him, but has no idea what it was until Bucky’s warm hands are on his shoulders, helping him to sit back up again.

 _Sit up._ Bucky said to sit up. Once Steve is up again, Bucky and Clint trade seats so that Bucky is next to Steve. He angles his hurting co-worker a bit away from him so he can reach behind his head, and Steve feels both his thumbs press into the meat of his upper traps. It’s soft at first, and then as soon as Steve adjusts and gets used to the pressure, it increases. It hurts but also feels good. Steve didn’t even realize those muscles were so tight until Bucky dug into them and got them to relax. 

Bucky holds one position for a minute or two, then moves to another and starts over, eventually traveling toward his spine and up the back of his neck. He touches probably ten or twelve spots in all, seemingly in a specific pattern, and every one has Steve feeling more and more relaxed, until he’s like a noodle. By the time Bucky has reached the back of his skull, the pain has receded to a much more manageable level. 

He realizes he’s leaning back into Bucky’s touch, craving it. His breathing has come back down to a normal level, and he feels kind of sleepy. How did Bucky _do_ that? How did he _know_ how to do that? 

“Better?” Bucky asks from behind him, and Steve nods. 

“So much better, thank you,” he says, and turns his head toward his savior. “Where did you learn that?”

Bucky’s hands drop back down to his sides and Steve shifts back into a normal seated position. Shrugging nonchalantly, he replies, “Up north.” 

Like it’s no big deal. Like he didn’t just do something miraculous. 

Clint seems equally impressed, tipping his head and remarking, “You make house calls? I’ve never seen it go away so quickly for him.”

Bucky frowns and looks at Steve. “You said they were under control.”

“Uhhh, yeah well,” Steve fudges, “Under control is just a figure of speech.” 

Bucky’s eyes on him are reproachful, but he offers Steve more help anyway. “Anytime you want, I’ll do the treatment for you. It’s very effective.” 

Steve nods his thanks. He hates asking people for help, but _damn_ , that really was amazing. 

“About that raise you wanted, Bucky,” Clint teases, raising his eyebrows at Steve. 

Steve huffs out a dry laugh. “Maybe I can pay him in chip dip.”

Bucky chuckles loudly at that. He and Darcy, having discovered a mutual love of the same kind of chip dip, had famously started hoarding it in the office lunchroom fridge. They kept bags of potato chips stashed everywhere. 

“Hell, I’ll come over every night if you’ve got chip dip,” he jokes, grinning. 

Steve smiles back. “Good to know.”

They are nearing their stop, and as Steve brings his eyes back from the view outside the window, he sees Clint’s gaze locked onto him, curiosity in it evident.

“How ya feeling?” he asks.

“The headache is still there, but much more tolerable,” Steve answers and looks at Bucky. “Really, thank you.”

“Really, you’re welcome,” Bucky states. “I mean it, call me if you are in that much pain. I don’t care what time it is.”

Steve nods but knows if it’s the middle of the night, he’s _not_ going to call Bucky and drag him over just to fix his headache. But he might grab some chip dip and a bag of potato chips next time he’s at the grocery store, just in case…


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's got a lot on his mind, like whether or not to get closer to Bucky, and he just can't seem to come to a solid decision. The temptation is growing, and he may not be able to hold out much longer if things keep going in the same direction...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so I tried three times to post over the weekend and AO3 was being a bitch. I blame Infinity War. I'm sure that must have been the cause somehow. So here's another chapter! I may intersperse some unrelated fluff and smut, because I really need it right now, but this is almost all the way written so it'll keep going, too.

Chapter Four 

It’s the middle of the night and Steve’s been writhing in pain for almost an hour. It’s like someone’s got a hot poker and they’re sticking it right through his skull, digging around and sliding it in and out of his braincase like they’re looking for something in there. He really wants to call Bucky over for help, despite telling himself he would never do that. He’s thought about it probably twenty times but hasn’t conceded. Pain is thundering through his brain. He’s tried heat, and ice, even those damn pills the doctor gave him, and nothing is working. Curling up on his bed in the fetal position and waiting it out seems his only option, unless he gives in and calls Bucky.

In the end he toughs it out alone, unwilling to make himself a burden to someone else. He doesn’t ever get back to sleep though, and does a lot of lying on his back staring at the darkened ceiling. The alarm going off for work comes as a highly unpleasant and unwelcome sound, and he slaps at his cell phone viciously to shut it off. He didn’t even get to have the dream, the one of Bucky that always seems to improve his mood. Most of the headache pain is gone by morning, but he feels exhausted and like his neck is tied up in knots. He drags himself with bleary eyes into the shower but is sluggish getting ready, so much so that Sam actually comes to _his_ door. 

“What’s up with you…” Sam’s voice drops off as Steve swings the door open for him. He blinks once and steps inside, surveying Steve’s appearance with a critical eye. “You look like shit, man.”

“Thanks for that,” Steve says dryly, plucking up his key ring. 

“Anytime,” Sam jokes, but then his face turns serious. “Anything I can do? Did you call Bucky for help?”

“No. Didn’t wanna bug him.” 

Steve avoids looking at Sam’s concerned face and glances around himself stupidly. He usually has something else to carry besides keys…oh yeah, sustenance. He typically would pack something to snack on, since it’s a surgery day, but fuck it. He’ll have to grab food at work. 

When Bucky, Natasha and Clint step onto the train and come shuffling down the aisle toward them, Steve can feel their eyes on him even though he’s looking down at his knees, eyes heavy with fatigue. 

“You look like shit, man,” Clint informs him as he takes a seat next to him. “They’re getting more frequent, aren’t they?”

Looking up, Steve gives a non-committal shrug. It’s not something he really feels like talking about right now, thank you very much _Clint_. Bucky doesn’t say anything, but Steve gets the feeling he’s going to be hearing about this at some point later on anyway. 

Natasha, demonstrating quite a motherly instinct, takes pity on him and steers the discussion away from his headaches and to the upcoming weekend. Steve smiles gratefully at her and sinks back against his seat, letting the others carry the conversation for the duration of the train ride. He’s so tired that he almost falls asleep sitting up, the rhythmic sway of the train lulling him into a stupor. He blinks when Sam nudges him and those around him start to rise. The train has already come to a complete stop, without him even realizing it. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living, zombie face,” Sam whispers. 

It’s gonna be a long day. 

\--

Turns out Steve’s first case gets postponed, as the patient has come down with a fever, so he gets a little bit of a reprieve. He got forty minutes in a dark room, which helped a bit with the fatigue, though that’s not the worst part of it. After all, what doctor _isn’t_ used to long hours on little sleep? The residual aching and spasms in his neck and shoulders are the most brutal. He’s sitting in the staff lounge, thinking about hitting up the vending machine for a heavily caffeinated beverage when the door to the lounge opens and Bucky pokes his head in. 

“Bucky?” 

Steve is surprised to see him, but then not surprised, because the man has already proven himself to be a decent human being. Checking up on a co-worker is something that seems in character. 

“Mind if I come in?” 

His dark hair is back in a low ponytail and he’s got his lab coat on. Steve knows they have a full schedule back in the office today and wonders how he snuck away without being missed. Clint’s probably covering for him.

“Don’t mind at all. You looking for me?” he asks, even though that answer is pretty obvious. There wouldn’t really be any other reason for his partner’s PA to be over in the surgical wing at this time. 

Bucky nods, his blue eyes fixed on Steve’s, appraising him almost clinically. “I asked Maria to text me when you were up again.” He slides into a chair next to Steve at the little table. 

“You did?” Steve sits up straighter, but tries to conceal the pleasure that thought gives him. He likes the idea enormously of Bucky being worried about him. 

“Yeah.” Bucky frowns a little, as if he doesn’t like what he sees. That’s not too surprising; Steve feels like death warmed over and assumes he looks pretty close to that, too. Bucky tips his head to one side. “How are you feeling?”

His hands lay quiet in his lap, while Steve looks down and fidgets with the bottom hem of his scrub top. “Fine,” he lies.

Bucky just laughs, drawing Steve’s eyes back to his. “You’re a terrible liar,” he asserts, and Steve rolls his head tiredly.

“Yeah, okay,” he admits, “I feel like shit. But I’ll make it.”

Standing, Bucky picks up his plastic chair and moves it behind Steve’s. He then takes a seat and puts both his hands on Steve’s shoulders. “I see you’re as stubborn as Clint said you were,” he says, not unkindly. “Let me help you.”

Steve’s chin drops to his chest. As soon as Bucky’s hands touched him, he was a goner. No way he’s saying no to this, no matter how stubborn he is…and _when were he and Clint discussing him?_

Bucky repeats the treatment he did for Steve on the train, patiently and efficiently. This time, without the pain screaming inside his head, Steve can pay more attention and appreciate it more. Bucky has good hands…. _no_ , great hands. He knows just when to press and when to back off; basically how to turn Steve into a boneless mess. All of that wondering he was doing about how Bucky’s hands would feel on him? Yeah, it’s way worse now that he’s gotten a little taste of it. 

Steve sits silently, eyes closed while Bucky works on him, asking an occasional question but for the most part not interrupting his concentration. He knows when Bucky has reached the last spot, because it’s right behind and below his ears—it’s the same spot he loves to be kissed, and Bucky’s fingers on him are _almost_ as good as his lips would be. He’s glad Bucky is behind him and can’t see the blush he imagines is on his cheeks.

By the time Bucky is finished, Steve’s neck feels like a million bucks. He’s still drop dead tired, but at least he’s not so sore. He definitely has more confidence he can make it through his surgical cases and still feel good about the care he’s given his patients. 

“Bucky, I don’t know how to thank you for that,” Steve tells him sincerely, as Bucky moves his chair back to its original spot and throws one leg over it, sitting on it with the back of the chair in front of him. “Chip dip seems wholly inadequate.”

“I think you underestimate how much I love that dip, Steve,” Bucky teases, eyes twinkling. He shrugs one shoulder. “But you could buy me a cup of coffee some time. Payment in full.”

A tingly feeling starts in Steve’s chest and blooms outward. _It’s just a cup of coffee,_ he tells himself. But does that ever really mean just a cup of coffee? And does he mean a cup from the cafeteria? Or does he mean going out like a _date?_ Is Bucky interested in him? Fuck, how he wants that to be true, but is still unsure if he _should_ want that to be true. 

Trust Bucky? Don’t trust Bucky? Get closer? Don’t get closer? His very presence is such a lure for Steve, his energy a beacon he can’t resist. _It’s just a cup of coffee_. Looking into those pretty eyes makes him a bit breathless, but he manages to speak a few words without sounding like he sprinted in from the parking lot. 

“I’d like that,” he answers with a smile, and before Bucky can say anything else, Maria bustles into the room and announces, “Your meniscus tear is about ready to go.” She stops short when she sees Steve isn’t alone. “Hey Bucky,” she adds. “How’s it going?”

As Steve rises from his chair, Bucky’s eyes linger on him for a nanosecond. He smiles at Steve before turning to Maria. “Livin’ the dream. What’s new with you?”

“I dropped my cell phone in the toilet,” she says gaily, sounding not at all upset by this event. 

In turn, Bucky looks puzzled and knits his eyebrows together. “Isn’t that bad?” 

Stretching his arms up and tilting his head this way and that to stretch, Steve answers for her. “No—she’s been dying to get rid of hers and upgrade, but her contract wasn’t up.”

She grins widely and Bucky mouths an “Oh” as they all head for the door. Bucky reaches it before Steve and holds it open for him as he passes by. 

“Catch you later?” Steve remarks, wanting to touch him in some way but not knowing quite how to manage it as casually as Bucky does, and is gratified to receive his own smile. 

“For sure,” is Bucky’s quick reply. 

“Okay then. And thanks,” Steve throws over his shoulder, and there’s a little bit of that breathlessness he thought he had under control. 

_It’s just a cup of coffee._

\--

Another couple of weeks go by, giving Steve plenty of time to agonize over whether he should get involved with the gorgeous man of his dreams, or play it safe. Bucky doesn’t pressure him, and still doesn’t behave in any paranormal way. Instead he’s sweet, supportive and cute, and Steve’s defenses are failing. 

Even Sam can’t find any proof of his theory, as chummy as he’s gotten with Bucky and his sister; though he hasn’t let go of the idea yet, he doesn’t seem to see the pair as a threat to Steve’s safety…or sanity. In fact he’s gone the other way, suggesting that since Bucky and Natasha would have had to sneak into the city that must mean they are anti-government, and that kind of attitude has Sam’s full support. 

“Maybe they’re secret agents,” he’d suggested, eyes wide. 

Steve scoffed. “Secret agents, here to spy on a small orthopedic practice? What secrets are they interested in, what kind of band-aids we use?”

Sam’s eyes rolled to the ceiling. “What about neurology, where Natasha works? Don’t you all hate that guy there? He’s probably into some major illegal shit.”

“Well, yeah, we do despise him,” Steve had been forced to admit, lip curling, that it was a remote possibility. But spying to what end? And what would happen when they got what they wanted? Bucky and Natasha would up and disappear? That seemed to be a con rather than a pro on the list.

“Maybe he’d take you with him,” Sam had suggested cheerfully. “Don’t you think it would be exciting to be with a renegade governmental special agent?”

Steve didn’t think that sounded exciting at all. Just dangerous. But when he’d turned to Clint for some private conversation, even he had only positive things to say about Bucky. Whatever was going on with Steve’s dreams, Clint didn’t see it as hazardous. Just…unusual. That paves the way for Steve’s eventual surrender. How long could he be expected to hold out against Bucky’s charms, anyway? The tide starts to shift in Bucky’s direction on a very specific day, at a very specific moment. And it all starts with Steve losing his temper.

He’s at work, in a treatment room talking to a spunky sixty year old woman who needs a new hip so she can go back to her senior bowling league. But she’s not who he loses his temper with. Next door, Clint is in with a young woman returning for a check-up after having knee surgery. Knowing this patient’s history, Steve had already instructed Clint to come get him if he needed back-up. 

Sure enough, Steve can hear her yelling at Clint right through the office walls, and it makes him see red. No one talks to his PA that way without consequences. Politely he escorts his patient up to the front desk to get her pre-op paperwork started, and turns back toward Clint’s room. Darcy is up in the office and sees the determined look on his face. 

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” she says, and Steve grits his teeth. The woman is unpopular with all the staff there, because of her rudeness and sense of entitlement.

As he barrels back down the hall, her screeching is punctuated by Clint’s voice, low and non-threatening. It isn’t working. He opens the door to the treatment room and finds his friend, still calm but clearly at the end of his rope, trying to settle the woman down. As soon as she sees Steve, she turns on him, eyes wild. She’s tall, slightly plump and would be attractive if not for the haughty look that was always on her face.

“You! Your fucking surgery failed!” she bellows. “This is your fault! You were supposed to fix me!”

Closing the door behind him, Steve keeps his order simple, his voice cold. “Lower your voice _right now,_ Ms. Jones, or I will call security.” 

Clint steps back, just behind and to one side of Steve, allowing him to take charge. 

The woman sneers. “Security?” She steps in closer, pointing a finger at Steve’s chest. “I’ll get a lawyer, that’s what I’ll do. You can’t touch me.” 

“Oh, I’m not going to touch you,” Steve tells her, voice dripping acid. He’s had it. Had it with her attitude and habit of blaming everyone else for her own reckless behavior. “And you will never speak to my staff like this again. You are no longer welcome here as a patient.”

Her face changes then, becoming livid at the dismissal. “You…you can’t...” she sputters. “I mean it, I’ll sue your asses for malpractice!” she threatens, but Steve is done. 

“Go ahead and try it,” he snaps furiously, then steps in and hisses, “And when they find out you completely ignored your post-surgical restrictions, the written ones you reviewed and signed right here in this office, see who will take your case. If your knee hasn’t healed properly, it’s _your own damn fault._ ”

He takes some satisfaction at seeing the shocked and indignant look on her face, before he turns and opens the door. 

“Let us know where to send your records. Now get out,” he adds frigidly. 

The woman reaches out and dramatically sweeps her file from the desk, sending it flying to the floor before storming out of the room and down the hall. Steve follows her to make sure she causes no more trouble, and watches her all the way out the door. He’s relieved when she doesn’t even spare a second glance for Darcy and the receptionist, ignoring them as she stomps out the door. 

Heaving a giant-sized sigh, Steve turns to his raven-haired office manager and lets his shoulders sag. “She won’t be back, unless it’s to retrieve records for a new physician.” 

She nods acknowledgment and walks up to the dividing counter between them, resting her elbows on it.

“You okay?” 

Now that the adrenaline is no longer needed, Steve feels shaky and hyped up for no reason. He also feels like he somehow failed to prevent the situation from going south. As infrequently as it happens, it’s never fun to fire a patient and he always shoulders some of the responsibility, rightfully so or not. 

Darcy sees the look in his eye and warns him, “Don’t you go blaming yourself for that. She was an awful patient who brought that on herself.”

“Yeah,” Steve says slowly, as if he’s only agreeing with that partially, and Darcy frowns at him.

“Don’t make me do it, Steve.”

He does a double take and looks at her. “Do what?”

“Schedule an intervention,” she jokes, trying to lighten his mood. 

She does get him to grin and laugh a little. “I don’t need an intervention, Darcy.”

“Alright then. One more guilty sigh and I’m coming after you.” She pats his shoulder and then returns to whatever she was doing before the disruption took place. 

“Yeah, Darcy,” Steve agrees, and turns back down the hall to talk to Clint. They have a brief huddle, during which Clint assures him he’s fine, and reiterates exactly what Darcy said to him, that he should not blame himself. Steve pretends to agree, gets the low down on his next patient, and moves on. 

But it still bothers him, and presses at the back of his mind as he considers the different ways he maybe could have handled it, for most of the afternoon. He’s sitting at his desk in his office toward the end of the day when there is a knock on his door. It’s Bucky, who hangs in the open doorway and asks, “You okay? Heard a rough one earlier.”

Steve shakes his head. “I hate it when they end badly like that, and I can’t keep my cool.”

Bucky swings into the room fully and drops down in the seat opposite him. “You were only doing what was needed to protect Clint. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Rocking in his chair, Steve thinks about that. “Well, yeah, no regrets on that part.”

Bucky grins. “Speaking for PA’s everywhere, we appreciate that.”

Steve’s head shakes again and he leans over the desk, arms resting on the shiny wood surface. “I have no problem sticking up for you guys, but I let her get to me, and I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re only human.” He leans over the opposite side of the desk, resting his forearms on it, too, and Steve is highly aware of how close they are to each other. “Could you have changed the fact that she was a non-compliant patient?”

Bucky’s eyes are locked onto his as Steve considers his question. “No,” he says quietly, hoping Bucky can’t hear how loudly his heart is pounding in his chest. The hairs on his arms are standing up, he’s so attuned to Bucky’s body near him.

“Could you have changed the fact that she was a bitch?” 

Steve has to chuckle at that; Bucky’s face just has a hint of a smile on it. “No,” he allows. She _was_ a bitch. Maybe he’d been chasing his own tail all afternoon, thinking about it too much. 

Bucky props his chin in one hand and his smile widens just a bit. “So then you have nothing to feel bad about.”

Mirroring Bucky’s position, Steve puts his chin in his hand. “Maybe not.” A surge of appreciation, of gratefulness flows through him. Having Bucky around is as comforting as slipping into a worn pair of jeans and your favorite-shirt, and walking around barefoot in deep pile carpet. Dating him wouldn’t be so bad, would it? He can picture himself with Bucky so, so very easily… his mind starts to wander until Bucky brings him back to their current conversation. 

“No maybes,” the brunet insists, and moves to stand. Before he does, he touches Steve’s forearm briefly. “I’ll let you finish up.” He’s then up and out of his chair, moving his muscled form more gracefully than it seems he should be able to.

“Thanks, Bucky,” Steve says with sincerity. 

Bucky smiles on his way out the door, leaving Steve feeling much better about the situation, and also about Bucky himself. Surely something…someone…who makes him feel so good can’t be bad. Surely that good sensation he has when he wakes from his dreams, the good sensation that has carried over into his experience with the real man, has to be a sign of some kind, has to mean _something_. But what does it mean?

\--

The next Friday that rolls around finds Steve and Bucky on the train, heading home in the midafternoon sans Clint, who stayed behind for a dental appointment. They are seated next to each other, deep in conversation about the value of a new surgical prosthetic they’d just started using, when Steve realizes they’ve missed not only Bucky’s stop, but his as well. He stops speaking mid-sentence, and Bucky seems to figure it out at the same time he does. 

“Did we just miss our stops?” he says, glancing out the window and laughing, and Steve replies in the affirmative.

“Well, I suppose we could get off at the next one and walk back,” Bucky suggests, thinking out loud. 

Steve’s got a better idea, though, one that strikes him on the spur of the moment but seems perfect. 

“No…let’s stay on. I know a nice coffee shop further down the line, if you wanna stop?”

Bucky’s warm smile is enough of an answer for Steve, but he appreciates the “Yeah, sure!” he receives from him anyway. 

They stay on the train, but their conversation shifts from surgical techniques when Bucky asks out of the blue, “Do you like living here?”

Steve’s automatic answer is “Yes,” he does like living here, but he realizes he’s never really spent much time in any of the other areas of Sanctuary for comparison. “Do you miss it up north?” he asks in return. "What’s it like there?”

Bucky shrugs lightly. “Lots of wind turbines. Scenery down here is better.” 

Steve knew that in the north, most of their power grid was supplied by wind power, just like down here, solar power was the dominant form of energy. Fossil fuels had long been obsolete, a necessity when the wall was built and access to such things as oil and gas were significantly curtailed. That was one of the things he liked about Sanctuary: their independence from the other territories. They tried to be as self-sustaining as they could be. 

Bucky doesn’t seem to want to elaborate much more on life up north. He’s more interested in pressing Steve for his thoughts. “Would you ever move to another area, like Nat and me?”

Wrinkling his brow, Steve considers that. “Well, sure,” he decides. “If I had a good reason to.” _Like someone I fell in love with was from another area,_ he thinks to himself, and immediately blushes. 

Bucky doesn’t seem to notice, though, because his eyes are distant and he clearly is lost in thought. Above their heads, blue lights installed in the ceiling of the train start to blink, and a tone sounds in a low, monotonous beat. Out of habit, Steve looks straight to the ceiling, as do the other riders around him. He then belatedly realizes Bucky hasn’t follow suit. 

“Psst, Bucky,” Steve issues a soft reminder, bringing him out of his trance. 

“What?” Bucky’s eyes focus back on him questioningly, making Steve smile. The man really must have been a million miles away, not to notice the drill.

“Drill,” Steve says in explanation and motions with his eyes to the ceiling. 

“Oh, yeah, right,” Bucky says, brushing his long hair back away from his face and looking up. He’s just in time, because the low tone had started to lift into the upper decibels of the acceptable range. Steve looks up again and allows his retinas to be scanned from above. The blue light sweeps through the train compartment. It’s painless and only takes a few seconds, but if they hadn’t put themselves in the proper position to be scanned in time, an alarm would be triggered. 

It was a safety drill that was conducted randomly in all sections of Sanctuary as part of their emergency response plan. Everyone in a public place, a car, their home, anywhere the scanners were installed could be located in an emergency through the use of the retinal scan. Every once in a while, the system had to be tested. Steve didn’t mind, except for the rare occasion when it went off at night and woke him up. 

Once he had been sleeping so hard, he missed the range of acceptable response times and the alarm went off. That was an experience he never wanted to repeat, because first you had to verify your location with a governmental official via live video feed, and then you had to fill out a bunch of paperwork about why you missed the drill, and read a lot of crap about civic duty, blah blah blah, and it was a pain in the ass. 

Once the scan is complete, they resume their discussion. One more stop down and they exit the train, climbing down the metal stairs at a leisurely pace while Steve answers more questions about his family and his youth. He is then surprised to learn that Bucky and Natasha lost their parents at a relatively young age, just like he did.

“I think that’s why we’re so close even now,” Bucky muses, kicking at a stone on the sidewalk in front of them as they meander. 

“You two are lucky to have each other,” Steve tells him. “I always wished I hadn’t been an only child.”

The shop they are headed for is on the corner of a busy intersection, but Steve likes it because it is a combination café and InfoShare stop, meaning there are several big screens up on the walls inside that scroll the news of the day, and a library of electronic books and magazines available. All you have to do is find the kiosk with the subject you want and scan it onto your device or phone. It’s always relatively quiet inside, even when there’s a crowd. The best part is the ton of cozy seating for people who want to sit and peruse their borrowed material or just watch the screens up on the walls. 

They push in through the doors and step up to the counter to order, which isn’t busy at this time of day. Bucky attempts to pay for his own coffee, until Steve stops him. 

“Uh-uh,” he interrupts him. “I’m paying, remember?”

Bucky’s phone disappears back into a pocket and he turns and leans against the tall glass counter, filled with pastries and other goodies available for purchase. He grins his thanks. “Okay, but I’ll get it next time.”

 _Next time._ Steve likes the sound of that. He pays by sliding his cell phone over the reader, and they take some seats farthest away from the television screens so they can converse without bothering anyone else. 

They talk for a good long time, long after their coffees are gone, and Steve would be content to stay there all night. It doesn’t matter what the topic is; he could listen to Bucky’s voice for hours, watch those full, red lips move, take in his clean, masculine scent. There’s no part of their afternoon together Steve doesn’t enjoy, and he _thinks_ his companion feels the same way. So what’s holding him back? 

He has no fucking clue. 

Something just outside his realm of awareness and conscious thought keeps telling him to be careful, to not let go fully, despite the burgeoning desire he feels. He can’t explain it. The two of them are seated across from each other, in overstuffed armchairs pulled close together. Most of the time they could speak in normal tones without having difficulty hearing each other, but after a particularly noisy group of teens had come in, they started leaning in toward each other, elbows resting on their knees, heads only a foot apart. 

“Steve,” Bucky says, and Steve realizes he’s been caught staring again. He has no idea what Bucky just said, aside from his name. Bucky’s blue eyes bore into his. Blood rushes through Steve’s ears and his cheeks warm. The way Bucky is looking at him, as if he’d like to take Steve home with him right now, is doing all kinds of interesting things to Steve’s innards. While his brain is still on the fence, the rest of his body has made a definite choice already. There must be a thousand butterflies in his belly, and not one of them is saying _slow down_. Not one of them is saying _be careful._ All of them say _Take me home with you._

“Steve,” Bucky repeats. He reaches out with one hand and touches the backs of Steve’s fingers with his, the gesture seductive and uncertain at the same time. Steve lets his fingers fall apart and twines Bucky’s in between his, rubbing his thumb in a slow circle over Bucky’s. The skin is soft and warm and laser bolts of energy shoot upward into Steve’s arm, spreading rapidly through his body. His breaths are quick and shallow, his brain short-circuiting with need and want. Just touching Bucky’s hand is enough to electrify his skin and send sparks zipping crazily all over the place. 

Bucky looks down at their hands, held together loosely, and back into Steve’s eyes, and suddenly the rest of the world falls away. There’s no one else around them. No sound but for the pounding in Steve’s ears, no movement but for the slight parting of Bucky’s lips as they stare at each other, as if he’s having trouble breathing, too. Steve finds himself falling toward Bucky in slow motion, bringing their mouths closer and closer together, wanting to close the rest of that distance and kiss those sensuous lips, press against him, taste him… 

…except he doesn’t.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve doesn't kiss Bucky. But he wants to, and Sam and Clint give him shit for it. Then Bucky comes through in the clutch when Steve needs him, and gives him even more to think about.

Chapter Five

There’s no kiss. Steve stops mid motion, swallowing down the lump in his throat, still looking into those amazing blue eyes, and then inches back again, looking down at their hands instead. He places his second hand atop Bucky’s, sliding his fingers over the back of Bucky’s hand briefly, then moves away and separates their hands again. That aborted attempt could have been awkward and horrible in the aftermath, but it’s not. Bucky seems to know, seems to understand Steve’s dilemma, even if Steve really doesn’t himself, and his demeanor only radiates kindness and empathy. 

“Steve,” he repeats, just as softly. “I’m attracted to you.” 

Steve imagines his pupils just got blown wide open, hearing those four little words, but he doesn’t move or speak, because Bucky’s not done yet, clearly choosing his words thoughtfully. 

“But you…you don’t think getting involved with a co-worker is a good idea, do you.” 

Is that it? Steve seems to recall bringing up that point in an internal dialogue some time ago, but he honestly can’t think of any damn reason why he shouldn’t be kissing the stuffing out of Bucky right now, public place or not. What the hell is wrong with him? Confusion and indecision win out, and since he can’t seem to string together a coherent series of words right now, Bucky’s reasoning seems good enough to go with. He nods silently; Bucky nods back once and bites at his lower lip.

“Then I’ll wait,” he declares. “I can wait for you.”

Steve swallows down another lump closing off his throat. It’s maybe the nicest thing anyone has ever said to him…that he’s worth waiting for. That it’s okay if he isn’t quite ready, that Bucky respects him and cares for him enough to not pressure him, or give up on him. It draws Steve in even _more_ , and for the first time makes him want to tell Bucky about the dream. To confide in him, and not be so confused and alone. To share something equally as intimate. To tell him _I do want you. I wanted you before I even met you._

“Bucky,” he starts unsurely. “There’s something I haven’t told you…” 

Bucky leans in closer, but doesn’t touch him. He waits for Steve to figure out what he wants to say. Steve wants to say a lot, but the words won’t form. His tongue is tied up in knots inside his mouth.

“I…” He can’t do it. “I’m attracted to you, too,” he finishes lamely. Well, it feels lame to him, but Bucky smiles like Steve just stuffed diamonds in his pocket. 

“Then I guess it’s a good thing I won’t be working in your office permanently,” he replies, eyes warm. 

“Yeah, I guess it is if you look at it that way,” Steve agrees, and the spell is broken. He looks around once and asks, “So… you ready to go?”

They both rise, grab their empty cups and toss them in the trash receptacle near the door as they head out. They’re in the dinner rush hour now and the street is much busier, with both foot and auto traffic plentiful. As they walk back toward the train stop Bucky asks him what his plans are for the night. 

“Nothing major,” Steve answers truthfully. Even though it’s Friday, he was really planning on sitting around and just decompressing, maybe watch some TV. “What about you?”

“Same.” Bucky looks at him, head tipped to one side. “Wanna do nothing major together?”

Steve looks back silently for a moment, considering if that’s such a good idea since they just admitted their mutual attraction for each other and it’s still freshly laid on the table. Again, Bucky guesses exactly what he’s thinking, grinning lopsidedly at him. 

“Just friends, I promise,” he says. 

Laughing, Steve nods. “Well then, absolutely.”

They re-board the train and find a couple of seats together that were just vacated. While they wait for their stops, Bucky pulls up the menu of the pizza place Sam had recommended and they order delivery to Steve’s apartment. Steve hops off at his stop, but Bucky stays on in order to go home and change clothes first. They’re both still wearing work attire, which means dress pants and button down shirts. 

During the elevator ride back up to his place, Steve has second thoughts and almost calls Bucky to back out of their plans. It’s not that he doesn’t want to spend time with him. He does. A _lot_. _That’s_ what he’s worried about. Not that Bucky won’t hold up his end of the bargain and just keep this friendly. He’s worried about _himself_ not being able to do that. He almost just freaking told Bucky about his dreams, for crying out loud, and was that a good idea? 

Probably not. 

Maybe not. 

Maybe it is. Maybe it would help to tell him. 

Mentally Steve slaps himself across the forehead. Okay, so he has no fucking idea about this shit, and it’s frustrating the hell out of him. Why were there no written rules to follow when you dream about a person you never even met before? This winging it shit sucks. 

He paces in the elevator alone, and when the door opens to his floor he goes down and raises his hand to knock on Sam’s door and see if he’s home yet. Arm up, fist closed, he hesitates, then drops his arm back down to his side and stands there silently. He already knows what Sam will say. Sam wanted him to tell Bucky straight away. Does he really want to do that?

Chewing his lip nervously, he walks over to his own door and fishes his keys out of his pocket. After letting himself in, he decides on a quick shower before Bucky arrives. _Not_ because he wants to smell good for him. He just thinks better in the shower. He turns the water on full blast, as hot as he can stand it (which is pretty hot) and soaks for just a minute before lathering up and rinsing down. 

Just a few minutes after that, towel-dried and dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt, he’s feeling much calmer. It’s not the right time to tell him yet. They need to get to know each other, trust each other more. He can handle this. They’re _friends_. It doesn’t have to get weird if he doesn’t let it. They’re just going to eat some pizza and watch some television. 

So why are his guts churning so much?

The food arrives just before Bucky does, and Steve refuses to let him transfer any money over to him. “So next time you get coffee _and_ food,” he teases. 

They have their dinner at the kitchen table and discuss what they want to watch that evening. Turns out both wanted to start the same comedy show, so when they’ve finished up they carry their dishes to the sink to get them out of the way. Steve rinses and hands plates to Bucky, who stacks them in the dishwasher for him, followed by silverware and glasses. After that it’s off to the living room, where they crash onto the couch with the TV remote.

They sit close to each other, but not _too_ close, and although Steve is completely and totally aware of how good Bucky looks and smells, and how much space separates their bodies, and how enjoyable it would be to spend a portion of their evening making out, there are no awkward silences or uncomfortable moments. Whatever sexual thoughts Bucky may be thinking or not thinking, he keeps them to himself as well, and Steve genuinely has a nice time just sitting with him and spending time with him.

And if Bucky’s ass looks fantastic in his jeans, that’s just a bonus. 

At one point, the remote disappears under the couch cushions and Bucky is turned around digging for it, ass up in the air, looking delectable. That doesn’t really help Steve keep a lid on his yearning, but it’s a great opportunity to practice his self-control. 

It’s a challenge. That ass is firm and round, and Steve can imagine only all too easily getting naked, grabbing onto it, and pounding his own dick into it. Spending the entire night wrapped around each other, wringing every last drop of pleasure from each other they could. So much for self-control. Those thoughts are not especially productive right now, so he closes his eyes and forces himself to think about something else. 

As Bucky rummages for the remote, he talks to Steve. “There are three seasons of this show already,” he informs him helpfully. “Then I think there was a break in filming, and they’re just starting the next season.”

“Yeah,” Steve remarks absentmindedly, definitely _not_ staring at Bucky’s incredible butt, or wiping his own chin drool. “Sam says the cast all came down with the same virus and almost died, and that’s why they had to stop filming for a while.” 

Breaking out into a fit of laughter, Bucky comes up with the remote and sits back down again. His smile covers his whole face. “Does Sam make all this stuff up, or does he actually subscribe to some strange propaganda tabloid?”

“Definitely a lifetime subscriber,” Steve jokes dryly. “You wanna watch one more episode?”

“Sure.” 

They take in one more show before calling it a night. As Bucky rises and stretches, he makes Steve an offer.

“Wait for me to watch more episodes, and you can choose the dinner next time.”

Steve grins. “That sure is nice of you, since you owe me anyway.”

Laughing as they head for the door, Bucky says, “I’m generous like that. Is that a yes?”

“That’s a yes.” Steve pulls open his door and says goodnight, closing the door softly behind Bucky when he leaves. More guaranteed alone time with Bucky? Yes please. But damn, he should have picked a show with more than three seasons!

\--

It’s a rare morning when all four men, Clint, Steve, Bucky and Tony, can get down to the cafeteria together for a spot of breakfast, but it does occur every once in a while. Steve and Tony are waiting for omelets while Bucky and Clint are over messing around at the oatmeal station when Tony turns and asks, “So what do you think of the new guy?”

Glancing first at Bucky, who is smiling and saying something to Clint, and then at his partner, Steve lets a small smile grace his face. “I think he’s great. What do you think?”

“My patients love him,” Tony states, smoothing his dark hair back and taking the hot plate from the staffer behind the counter. “And he made a good call on a growth plate fracture for me the other day. Very astute.” 

Steve nods, waiting for Tony to continue. It’s not the first time they’ve talked about their staff issues since Bucky started and he’s already told Tony about his appreciation for Bucky’s clinical skills, so he suspects he is going somewhere else with this. They’re still waiting for Steve’s food to be delivered, so he stands patiently in place, holding his tray. 

“And _personally_ how do you feel about him?” Tony’s chocolate-colored eyes are on him, eyebrows raised inquisitively. 

There it is. The tone itself would give it away, but in combination with the eyebrows? Steve laughs softly. “Are you asking me if I have the hots for him?” His plate is handed to him, and the two of them head for the drink station. 

This time Tony is the one who laughs, a short chuckle. “Oh, I already know you have the hots for him. I’m asking why you’re not dating him yet.”

Steve’s mouth falls open slightly and he looks at his friend as they set their trays down on the silver bars that run the length of the station. Picking up a cup, he exclaims, “Tony!” in a surprised voice. “So you don’t think dating a co-worker is a problem?”

Casually Tony selects a cup and waves it in the air before setting it down under the orange juice nozzle. “Not really, and besides,” he smiles at Steve and presses the OJ button to start the flow of juice. “You won’t be co-workers forever. Only temporarily.”

Steve is filling up his cup with steaming hot coffee. Thoughtfully he looks over at Bucky again. Tony is a good friend, but he doesn’t know about the dreams yet. He doesn’t know Steve has been having visions of Bucky for months, or that he hasn’t told Bucky about this yet either. Would that change his opinion on things? _Probably not_ , Steve thinks, but he’s not going to up and spill his guts right now, so he stays silent. 

“I’ll take that to mean you’re still thinking about it,” Tony decides, in observation of his non-verbal state. 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, before Clint and Bucky join them and they all advance to the check-out queue. 

They’ve just found seats and are all digging into their food when Clint grunts and nods in the direction of the entrance to the cafeteria. “There’s Dr. Asshat,” he mumbles and puts a big spoonful of oatmeal in his mouth.

Looking over in that direction, Steve sees immediately who Clint is talking about. An older, red-haired man in a white lab coat stands near the entrance, talking to another man in a dark suit. Every once in a while an oily smile flashes across his face. 

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs under his breath to his companions. “He’s probably schmoozing the Center’s president to assign him role of Emperor For Life over all other departments.”

Tony and Clint both guffaw, while Bucky’s head swings around to see who they’re talking about. 

“Doctor Alexander Pierce, Head of Neurology,” Clint spits out helpfully, watching Bucky’s face. 

There is a flash of recognition in Bucky’s eyes before he replies, “Oh yeah, I’ve heard of him.”

As he turns back to their table, Tony snorts next to him. “You mean you’ve heard that if his dick was as big as his ego, he’d be a porn star?”

They all laugh and Bucky adds, “Mostly just about him _being_ a giant dick.”

“Ya got that right,” Steve grumbles, and shovels in more omelet.

Clint turns to Steve. “It wasn’t him you were going to see, though, was it?”

“God, no,” Steve makes an expression like he ate something foul. “It was a different neurologist.” He can feel Bucky’s eyes on him now and looks up to meet them.

“For your headaches? You were going to see a neurologist?” Bucky asks, his spoon laden with oatmeal held in mid-air.

“Yeah,” Steve confirms. “But I cancelled the appointment.”

“Oh.” Bucky’s spoon resumes its course into his waiting mouth. 

“You sure you don’t want to make another one?” 

Steve’s eyes shift; it’s Tony doing the asking, and his concern is written all over his face.

“I’m fine,” Steve insists. “Besides, I’ve got Bucky now.” He grins at his pony-tailed savior. “He’s better than any drug.” 

The smile that curls over Bucky’s face, eyes directly on Steve’s, is also better than any drug, and Steve feels a warmth develop in his chest and spread up into his neck and cheeks. 

“That only works if you actually fucking _call him_ when you have a headache, genius,” Clint teases, and Steve makes a face as if to say, _who, me?_

Lifting his eyebrows, Bucky’s expression says he agrees with Clint one hundred percent, and even in silence, the accusation is clear. 

Steve gives. He can’t take the eyebrows of disapproval. “Alright, I promise,” he tells Bucky. “Next time I’ll call.” 

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Bucky asserts firmly. 

Secretly Steve is glad Clint brought it up, while at the same time he still fights his stubborn streak. He wants help, he really does. It’s just _so hard_ to ask for it. If he has promised to, that makes it harder for him to go it alone the next time. Or so he tells himself.

\--

It’s a few days later and Sam is hosting the monthly tradition of poker night at his place. Steve and Clint have already arrived and are seated around Sam’s dining table while they wait for Tony and Bucky. Sam has his poker chips and cards out, along with a plethora of snacks and drinks, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic. They may partake a little while playing but no one gets really smashed, because they all have to work the next day. 

Clint, looking comfortable in shorts and a t-shirt that reads, _I’m not a doctor, but I’ll take a look_ , nudges Steve in the side with his elbow. “Hey,” he says, popping a potato chip into his mouth and crunching down on it, “You still having the dream?”

Sam looks up from stacking poker chips and waits for Steve’s response. 

“Yeah,” Steve nods and folds his arms on the table. “Every night. Same thing.” He glances at Clint. “I haven’t told Tony yet.”

Clint nods his light brown head. “Figured that.” He turns to Sam next. “Well if Bucky’s a mind-reader, he’s doing a shitty job.”

Sam gives him a head tilt. “Dude, what are you talking about?”

Spreading his hands wide, Clint says, “Well he wasn’t exactly Johnny on the spot when Steve had that headache and needed help. Shouldn’t he have conveniently turned up, if he can read Steve’s mind?” 

“It was the middle of the night!” Sam defends his theory. “Maybe he was, you know, _sleeping?_

Clint chuckles lightly. “Or he’s _not,_ in fact, a telepath.”

Sam defiantly holds his ground. “Or it would totally blow his cover if he made it that obvious, turning up in his PJ’s in the middle of the night without being asked.”

Steve shakes his head, laughing, as Sam goes on.

“Not that Steve would mind if Bucky turned up at his door in the middle of the night, though, right?”

“What?” Steve sits up straight.

“Especially if he doesn’t sleep in pajamas at all and turned up naked,” Clint throws in, smirking at him.

Steve’s eyes bug out. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands, while Sam chortles.

He pretends to be Bucky speaking, tossing non-existent long hair over his shoulder. “So, Steve, I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought it was a good time to fix your headache.” He uses air quotes around the word “headache” and grins at Clint, who is laughing out loud at his impersonation. He finishes it with, “And also, I’m naked. But you’re cool with that, right?” and bats his eyes at Steve.

“What the fuck?” Steve exclaims. “We’re not…we don’t...” 

“Oh, come off it,” Clint cuts him off with false scorn. “You two spend half your time on the train eye fucking each other. I’m surprised I haven’t caught you in the supply closet at work making out yet.”

Steve frowns. “That would be highly unprofessional.”

He gets Clint’s finger in his face. “Aha! You didn’t say you didn’t want to!”

Steve buries his face in his hands and listens to Sam cackle at him. “Stop it,” he moans. Great, now he’s got an image on his head of himself and Bucky in the supply closet, groping each other and kissing like it’s their last day on Earth. He can almost feel Bucky’s hard body against his, his hands finding their way underneath Steve’s clothes to press against bare skin…

Sam brings him back to reality. “Steve, if you like him, just ask him out.”

“Yeah, just do it already,” Clint agrees. 

Steve picks up his head. “Even if I haven’t told him yet?”

Clint sort of shrugs as if to say _beats me_ , while Sam is more verbal. “You know I think you should tell him.”

When Steve’s face turns into one of worry, he insists, “Maybe he has all the answers, and he’s just waiting for you to ask!”

“I don’t know,” Steve hedges, and jumps when two furry paws suddenly wrap around his bare shin, and a tiny furry body clings to him in attack mode. 

“Jesus, Fluffy!” he yells, looking down under the table as Clint and Sam both hoot with laughter.

As he’s trying to extricate himself from the cat, Clint scoops him up and puts him in his own lap. Immediately Fluffy starts to purr and rubs his head on Clint’s chest. 

“You have quite a way with mangy animals, Clint,” Steve grumbles and pulls the bag of potato chips closer to him. 

“Who you calling mangy!” Sam starts, and the doorbell interrupts him as it chimes musically. 

It’s Tony, and Bucky arrives just a minute later, loaded for bear with more potato chips and dip. Poker ensues immediately and while Bucky does win a few hands, he’s not mopping up the floor with them like he would if he was reading their minds. In the back of his head, Steve is reminded of Clint’s words. _If Bucky’s a mind-reader, he’s doing a shitty job._

Maybe that’s the point? Keeping a low profile? Is Sam right and Bucky’s got a cover to maintain? What the hell for? It just doesn’t make any sense, but neither does Steve seeing Bucky’s face in dreams for months. When he looks at Bucky and their eyes meet, and his temperature and pulse go berserk, he finds he’s caring about that less and less. He’s caring more and more about how Bucky makes him feel, which is really damn good. 

It’s nearing the end of the night when Steve starts to feel it. The headache is coming again. This time he doesn’t fight it and asks for help as soon as the tell-tale pain starts slamming against the side of his head. Bucky, of course, agrees immediately. “We should go to your place first, so you’re comfortable and can go to sleep afterwards,” he suggests.

It occurs to Steve that now would be the perfect time to make a clever remark about Bucky trying to get him alone in bed at his place, but he’s in too much pain to give a shit, so he just nods instead. Bucky nods back and looks at Sam again. 

“You need help cleaning up before we go?” he inquires politely, and Sam shakes his dark head.

“Naw, we got this. You and Steve, go.” He waves at the door. “I’ll count up your chips for you,” he tells him, with a sly smile. 

Steve tries to laugh but winces slightly at the pain that produced. “Yeah, I’ll bet you will,” he jokes, stands and follows Bucky to the door. 

“G’night, guys,” Bucky says with a wave, and Steve follows suit. 

“See you tomorrow,” he says, and the other three men say goodnight as well. 

He and Bucky walk next door, and Steve is already squinting at the bright light in the hallway. As he fishes his keys out of his pocket, Bucky takes them and applies the house key to the door lock for him.

“Thanks,” Steve mumbles, and shuffles in when Bucky gets the door open.

Tossing Steve’s keys down on the table near the door, Bucky flicks on the light over the dining table using a nearby wall switch. 

“Why don’t you go change real quick, so when we’re done you can just lie down?” 

Steve tries to smile at the suggestiveness of the comment, managing the start of a grin before giving up and flinching in distress. Bucky recognizes his effort and tries to keep things light himself. 

“Unless you sleep naked, that is,” he jokes. 

Even with the headache pain worsening, Steve feels himself flush with embarrassment, thinking about the conversation he had earlier with Clint and Sam. 

His head shakes as he replies, “I can’t even come up with a snappy comeback for that.” 

Bucky makes a sympathetic expression. “Go change, Steve. I’ll wait here.”

Retiring to the bedroom for a moment, Steve changes into sleep pants and an old plain white tee, then figures he may as well stop in the bathroom first to wash up and brush his teeth so he can lie down when Bucky’s done, as he suggested, and not worry about anything else. 

When he emerges from the bathroom he finds Bucky sitting in one of the chairs around the dining table, with another one placed in front of him. Before he gets too far from the bathroom, though, Bucky poses him a question. 

“Do you have any baby oil, or massage oil, anything like that? It actually works better, and I won’t worry so much about giving you a friction burn.”

Steve nods and retreats back the way he came, grabbing some baby oil from his medicine chest. It’s lavender scented. So sue him. When he comes back out the second time, Bucky sees him coming and pats the seat in front of him. 

“Right here, please.”

Steve hands him the bottle; Bucky glances at the purple label and plastic bottle and quirks one eyebrow at him, while Steve tries not to smile. “Don’t say it.”

A tiny giggle escapes, but Bucky doesn’t say anything. Steve sinks into the chair without another word, his back to Bucky, grateful beyond words for what’s coming. He wants the contact as much as he wants the treatment. Bucky’s skilled fingers, touching him, feeling him, moving over his skin. That’s as much a prize as the reduction of his headache pain is. 

“Um,” Bucky hesitates, his hands on Steve’s shoulders, and Steve can hear the amusement in his voice. “Unless you want your shirt to smell like flowers, you might want to take it off, cuz this will get a little messy.”

Steve hangs his head. “Couldn’t stop yourself, could you.” 

He reaches for the bottom of his shirt, then hesitates a beat. Clinically he knows when you’re working on bare skin that friction burn is a real thing, but still flushes red at the idea of taking his shirt off in front of Bucky. Not because he’s uncomfortable with his body. Because he _wants_ Bucky to look at his body. He works hard to keep himself in good shape, and having Bucky’s eyes examine him and roam over him is a real turn-on. Fortunately, his headache is continuing to worsen and should prevent any type of arousal from happening. 

Bucky is laughing at Steve’s comment and doesn’t seem to notice his hesitation. He pours a tiny amount of oil on his hands as his patient peels his shirt off and sets it on the table next to them. His hands then resume their place on Steve’s shoulders. There is a moment of silence, during which Steve pleasurably and nervously wonders if Bucky is checking him out, and then Bucky directs him to “Just relax.”

Steve’s self-consciousness at being shirtless with him fades quickly, as soon as the man’s thumbs press into his tight muscles. Then that’s all that matters. The pain relief comes so quickly, it’s fantastic, and not just to the spots Bucky actually presses on. Different areas of pain in his head are equally relieved. Painful spasms recede into a dull, manageable ache. Every new spot Bucky finds and digs into gives him a different kind of needed relief. 

“Mmm, Buck,” he murmurs. “How you do that is beyond me.” 

“I’ve got skills you can’t imagine.”

Bucky’s tone is jocular, but a rush of fire lodges straight in Steve’s groin as he considers what that skill set might include. He tenses as Bucky attacks a particularly painful knot in his upper trap. When Bucky touches it, a wave of nausea and pain sweeps through him, effectively dissipating the heat in his nether regions. 

“Find a happy place, Steve,” Bucky says softly. “You’re too tense.” 

_Find a happy place._ That’s a distracting thought, so he focuses on it. What’s his happy place? More and more, Bucky figures prominently in it. As in, he and Bucky are _together._ Since the day of their visit to the InfoShare, he’s been longing for the kiss that almost happened. He’s imagined it a hundred times, what it would have been like to lean the rest of the way in that day and taste him, feel the press of those lips, the sweet softness of his tongue. It’s a thought he just can’t ditch. Happy place, for sure. 

His head has fallen forward into the very picture of relaxation by the time Bucky has finished with him. The headache pain once again moves from one side of his brain into the other, but it’s just a dull aching, not the horrid, spiking agony he was expecting. As Bucky releases the last two spots, just behind Steve’s ears, he asks in a low, soothing voice, “How are you feeling?”

His hands are back on Steve’s shoulders again, just resting quietly, but it feels so intimate that Steve feels his own breathing pick up. His skin tingles where it’s being touched. He doesn’t want to read too much into it, but damnit, knowing there’s a mutual attraction there isn’t helping matters at all. His body is _not_ being as logical about this as his brain is and longs for those hands to rub, to glide, to seek out contact with the rest of his body. 

“Do you have to stop?” he hears himself say, and Bucky misinterprets his words. 

“Are you still in a lot of pain?” he asks worriedly, and Steve shakes his head. 

“No, just the opposite. I feel so much better.”

“Oh. Okay, good,” is the relieved reply. 

The hands have not moved yet, nor has Steve. Can’t they just sit like that for another hour or two? God, those hands and that touch. He needs it like he needs oxygen to breathe. Steve waits as long as he thinks he can get away with decently before turning his head to the side and saying, “Thank you,” to the man behind him. But he makes no move to get up, and neither does his companion. 

“Anytime,” Bucky responds, and there is a moment that lasts an eternity, during which Steve’s heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of his chest and he wonders if having sex when he still has a small headache would be inappropriate. And would it make him feel worse, or better? Then Bucky’s hands do fall away slowly and he adds, “I know I said this already, but I _mean_ it, Steve. Anytime you need me.” 

_Anytime you need me._ Oh boy. Steve’s got a lot of needs Bucky could help him out with. A figurative smorgasbord. He stands and Steve follows suit, albeit a little sadly. 

As Steve turns around to face him, Bucky adds, “And now you should go to bed.” His eyes are warm, his lips plush and red. He looks completely kissable. Not that Steve’s still thinking about that. 

“Bed. Yes, doc,” he can’t help teasing, though inside his head are the unspoken words, _and you should come with me._

Going to bed with Bucky sounds like the best idea he’s ever had. They could test out that headache theory. For science. Surely all those endorphins released when a person has sex would be beneficial? 

They both say goodnight and Steve turns away from his closed door, disappointingly alone for the night. 

Now just why did he decide he should wait to have a relationship with Bucky?


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That kiss that didn't happen? It happens. And Steve learns something about Natasha he didn't know before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This weekend sucked, and not in a good way. Since Chris Evans had to back out of Seattle's ComicCon, my life goal of getting my arms around him and determining if those shoulders are all real or just implants, has been thwarted yet again. I try to remain hopeful of someday reaching the promised land. Until then, I shall bury myself in smut.
> 
> Thanks to elves_n_angels and to ColorCoated for trying to cheer me up, because I'm a big baby!

Chapter Six

Steve tips his head back and lets the warm sun hit his face. There are several beach chairs set up around his, most of them occupied. At the moment, though, no one is speaking, so the only sound is the gentle wind whistling through the leaves of a nearby willow tree, and the laughter of Tony and Pepper’s children as they play in the shallow water just off the shore of the lake. The two girls and their parents are playing with some water cannons, squirting each other with gusto. Steve makes a mental note to keep track of where those cannons get put down later, so he can use one on Sam.

“I can see why you like it here so much, Steve.”

It’s Bucky’s voice cutting into his thoughts, and he turns to regard the brunet sitting next to him. Bucky has board shorts on, and like the rest of the men around him, he’s shirtless. It’s just as good as it sounds. His muscles aren’t quite as bulky as Steve’s are, but still formidable. The contours of his shoulders and chest are well defined, his skin supple; it’s a body perhaps more lithe and agile than Steve’s. Whereas Steve’s strength would be to rip a tree in half, Bucky’s strength would be to climb it. 

Gesturing out to the sparkling, rippling surface of the lake in front of them, Bucky smiles peacefully. “This place is fantastic.”

“You should see it when the sun sets over the water,” Steve tells him. “It goes down just beside the island out there.”

The lake is large, oblong in shape, with several small islands at the center covered with trees. One of them stands a couple hundred yards off shore of Tony and Pepper’s house, and Steve loves to sit and watch the sun go down, a blaze of orange and red reflecting off the surface of the water. It’s his favorite thing to do out here. 

Right now the sun is directly overhead, it being almost noon, and the temperature hovers around a pleasant eighty degrees Fahrenheit. Hot enough that the water is refreshing, but not so hot or humid that they’ll sweat to death. A few puffy, white clouds drift slowly overhead. They had driven out that Sunday morning in Sam’s truck to meet Tony’s family, who had come out the previous day. 

The men had gallantly let Natasha sit up front, while Steve, Clint and Bucky took the back bench seat. Steve sat on one end with Bucky crunched next to him, sitting so closely together that their legs touched. Steve didn’t bother to look and see how much space was between Bucky and Clint on the other side. Their shorts were long enough that it wasn’t skin on skin, most of it anyway, just bare knees knocking together, but even clad in fabric the feel of Bucky’s thigh against his was titillating, and not one he was willing to trade for extra space. 

The drive out of town only took forty minutes, but it was like being transported to a different planet. Gone were the skyscrapers of the city, replaced by rolling fields and thickets of trees. Once in a while they passed a solar farm, its giant panels all aligned with the sun’s path across the sky. 

“Do you guys come out here often?” Natasha asks, leaning forward in her chair so she can see Steve. She’s wearing a tankini bathing suit and a large straw sun hat, keeping the bright rays out of her face. 

Clint pipes up first. “Tony, Pep and the kids come out nearly every weekend in the summer, and they let us tag along several times.”

“They only put up with you because the girls want Uncle Sam here to help them build their sand castles,” Sam teases, head back on his chair and eyes closed. He cracks one eye open to grin at Clint.

“Whatever, dude,” Clint says derisively. “You know my sand castles are always bigger than yours.”

“Is that a euphemism for something?” Bucky jokes, making Sam laugh and Clint harrumph. 

“Shots fired,” Steve observes to Natasha, sticking his long legs out in front of him and digging his toes into the sand.

Their little beach has very fine sand that is a pretty white color, and feels good on his feet as he relaxes. They sit for quite a while, just taking it all in, and when the girls tire out and come back to the beach, Tony and Pepper want to head into the house to get lunch ready. As usual, Pepper, an efficient and upbeat woman, refuses their offers of help. 

“No, that’s what Tony is for,” she insists firmly, shaking her blonde head when Bucky and Natasha both rise to go with them. “Stay here, please, and someone had better try out those paddleboards we lugged down.”

She points to the two beached paddleboards, which they indeed had carried down with them from the house, along with two paddles. They were new purchases this season, but Steve had been paddle boarding plenty of times before and had enjoyed it very much. He’d had a mind to take one out and circle the island to check it out up close. 

Natasha eyes the paddleboards warily and states, “I think I’ll stick with wading,” but Bucky looks much more enthused. 

“Who wants to paddle out to the island with me?”

Steve glances at the girls before answering; they’ve already dried off with beach towels and have staked out places to start building their castles, not interested in the paddleboards yet. Steve expects that will change once they see others out on them, though. 

Clint gets out of his chair and kneels next to Reagan, the younger of the two girls. “Steve,” he calls out, “Since you suck at sand castle construction, why don’t you get off your fat butt and go with Bucky?”

Reagan, a tiny slip of a girl with Pepper’s blonde hair and freckles, comes to his defense. “Uncle Steve’s butt isn’t fat,” she tells Clint solemnly.

“Thank you, Reagan,” Steve says loudly as he stands.

“It’s his shoulders that are fat,” she adds, smiling.

All of the adults present have a chuckle about that, Steve included. “My shoulders are fat?” he asks, grinning widely.

“Yes,” she replies, giggling. “When you give piggy back rides, there’s _so much_ to hold onto!”

Bailey, a clever eight year old who favors Tony with her darker hair and skin tone, nods and agrees. “Uncle Steve’s piggy back rides are the best.”

“ _What?_ ” Sam cries out, pretending to be shocked. He plops down in the sand next to her. “I thought we were buds,” he teases, tapping her on the knee. “And here you’ve been taking piggy back rides from Uncle Steve behind my back?”

“Nooooo,” she giggles loudly and digs both hands into the wet sand in front of her. “Not behind _your_ back, behind Uncle Steve’s back!”

There is more laughter and Tony speaks up, hands on his hips. “But who gives the greatest piggy back rides of all time, complete with sound effects _and_ corral to bedside service?”

“Daddy!” both girls shriek happily. 

Tony’s smile is gigantic as he and Pepper head up to the house. Bucky looks at Steve. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” Steve agrees, and they both walk over and grab a paddle, then drag a board down toward the water. 

It’s not an especially deep lake so the water is cool but not frigid, even though it’s early in the season. Once they get out to their knees, they both climb onto their boards and stand. Bucky has obviously done this before as well, as he has no trouble at all standing and getting under way. Once he’s up, Steve does okay, but it’s the balancing part _while_ he’s standing up that’s tricky. He’s top heavy, so he has to take his time getting to his feet. 

He’s still squatting on his board, feet wide, getting ready to rise when Bucky is already up and paddling. He does a slow circle around Steve as he lets go of his board with his hands and straightens his knees, picking up his paddle as he does so. There is one slight wobble, but otherwise a successful transition, and he’s good to go. 

It’s a perfect day for paddling, too, as the breeze is just a slight one and there aren’t a lot of waves. They stay next to each other so they can talk as they slice through the water toward the island. Steve asks where Bucky learned to board, and he shares a funny story about summer camp and lots of practice having the board pulled out from under him by childhood friends horsing around. Steve listens with rapt attention, though mostly he just likes hearing him talk, no matter what subject they’re on. 

And watching him move on that board, with his arms, chest and back muscles all working in concert as he paddles, well that isn’t bad, either. 

They reach the island and circle around it twice. The water at the edge is shallow, but there are no beachy areas. As he looks down Steve can easily see the pebbly bottom, and plenty of minnows darting around. The island is small, maybe a half acre in size, and seems to be inhabited mostly by squawking birds. They see one crane standing in the shallows and Steve observes a tree trunk that appears to have been whittled down quite a bit by beavers, but otherwise they are alone. 

After their second pass around, Steve suggests they go down the main shoreline a bit, and Bucky agrees easily. There are two public beaches on the other side of the lake; on their side the shore is littered with private homes. Motorboats are not allowed, but they see several sailboats out, a few parasails and lots of kayakers.

They paddle down for maybe fifteen minutes, hugging the shoreline, before turning back. Throughout the trip, they trade questions, some serious and some silly, but all give Steve a contented feeling in his chest, of pleasure just in finding out small details of Bucky’s life and personality. The two of them have a lot in common, more than he ever expected, although they don’t see eye to eye on _everything._. 

“Dogs or cats?”

“Dogs!” Steve belts out matter-of-factly, and waits for Bucky’s answer before asking a new question. 

“Dogs,” Bucky says, but adds, “I don’t mind cats, though.”

Steve makes a face, thinking of his not-so-best-friend Fluffy. “Fiction or non-fiction?”

Bucky takes a big pull with his paddle and looks at him. “Fiction. All the way. You?”

“Non-fiction.” Steve laughs at the disgusted look on Bucky’s pretty face. “Mostly historical stuff.”

Bucky’s expression morphs into one that says he thinks that’s the most boring thing he’s ever heard. “Geez, Steve. What else do you do for fun, watch paint dry?”

“No, the paint-drying club is very exclusive, and hard to get into,” Steve quips, and delights in the giggle that comes out of Bucky’s mouth. 

“Favorite season?”

Steve thinks about that one before answering. “Fall. I like the change of color, and how crisp the air gets.” 

Bucky nods. “I do like fall, but summer’s my favorite because I like to be outdoors.”

“And fall off paddleboards?” Steve jokes.

Bucky flashes him a dazzling smile. “No way. Haven’t fallen off in years.”

“Years? That’s hard to believe.”

Bucky’s head shakes. “Years,” he insists firmly, and for Steve that’s a challenge he can’t resist. 

He sticks his paddle out to the side and gives Bucky’s board a big shove, making him flail wildly; he almost recovers his balance but fails, and falls comically into the water. Steve is laughing raucously, standing still on his board instead of doing the smart thing, which would have been to put as much distance between himself and Bucky that he possibly could. 

As soon as Bucky’s head breaks the surface of the water again, he goes for Steve, swimming over with a few powerful strokes. He grabs onto one side of his board and tips it, dunking the big blond abruptly. Steve flops into the water gracelessly, and they are both laughing as he surfaces and they clamber back up onto their boards. Bucky’s hair is slicked back against his head, his body wet with drops of water that slide down his skin. Steve stares, forgetting for a moment what he’s doing. He’s crouched on his board, eyes on his companion. The water drops glint in the sun, running down like rain off a body of granite, and it makes his mouth water. 

“You’re gonna pay for that one at some point, you know,” Bucky hints, standing up easily.

Steve tips his head. “Did you miss me hitting the water there? I think I already did.” 

Bucky snorts. “You think that was pay-back? Dream on.”

“Shit.” Steve grins and rises slowly to his feet, secretly thinking _I undoubtedly will_.

By the time they make it back to their own beach, the sand castles have reached a few feet in height. Steve refrains from pointing out that Clint and Reagan’s castle is noticeably higher than Sam and Bailey’s. As predicted, the girls now think that paddle boarding looks like more fun than Christmas, and insist on some lessons. Steve and Bucky help them on with their life jackets, then give them some instructions on the basics. In the end, though, the girls end up sitting on the front of the boards while their two teachers give them a guided tour of the island.

After that, lunch is served and they eat outside at the large picnic table up in the shaded front yard of the house. There is a tire swing hanging from a nearby oak tree, and if the scene looked any more picturesque Steve would put it on a postcard. After their mid-day meal is consumed more fun in the sun follows, until Steve thinks the girls will drop from exhaustion. 

He himself is feeling a little fatigued from spending so much time in the sun, so he heads up to the house, intending to help Pepper start dinner preparations. He enters through the screened in porch that leads to a den; with the air conditioning going, it feels quite cool and comfortable inside. He pauses a moment to let his eyes adjust to the level of dimness indoors. The overstuffed furniture around him is well worn in, but still comfy, the striped rug on the floor the same one that’s been there for years. Steve feels comfortable and at home here.

Taking a few long strides, he reaches the arched opening to the kitchen. No sooner has he stepped foot inside than a stab of pain shoots right through his temple and he momentarily is blinded in that eye. Stumbling into the kitchen table, he involuntarily moans with the pain of it. Pepper rushes to his side at once, throwing down the knife and head of lettuce she was holding. 

“Steve!” she cries out. “Come and lie down on the couch.”

Taking his arm and leading him around, she guides him back into the den and pushes him down onto a sofa. He sits willingly, barely looking where he’s going but comfortable in the knowledge that she will get him to their destination with toes and shins unharmed. 

“What can I do?” she asks anxiously, as Steve pants with shallow breaths. 

This attack is a powerful one, with waves of nausea and pain coming as quickly as end stage labor pains. Between grunts, he replies, “Go find Bucky. Don’t tell anyone else.”

She gives him a look, but he is insistent. He doesn’t want to spoil anyone else’s fun, especially since there isn’t anything anyone else can do, anyway. She rushes off and he buries his head in his hands, leaning forward onto his elbows. Pepper returns in only a couple of minutes with Bucky in tow, as promised.

“Steve, another one?” Bucky says anxiously, and wraps his hands around Steve’s shoulders to sit him back up straight again.

“Buck,” Steve groans. He can hardly stand it—it’s like lasers are cutting into his brain, slicing through neurons right and left in some strange version of a video game where his brain is the target. “Please,” he whispers, and would be alarmed at the look of worry on Bucky’s face, if he could possibly be aware of anything else happening right now aside from what’s going on inside his body. 

“Bucky,” he does hear Pepper say, “Do you need anything?”

Bucky’s words aren’t distinguishable though, and in another ten seconds his skilled hands are on Steve’s neck and nothing else registers. The pain relief he has come to expect immediately doesn’t happen, though, not like it has with their previous sessions. Bucky is on his third hand placement when Steve involuntarily recoils slightly; it hurts, and not in a good way. It hasn’t been like this before. This pain is worse, so much worse.

“Steve,” Bucky says softly, stilling his hands, “I think we need to try something else.”

“Okay,” Steve agrees. What’s he going to do, say no to the only possibility of relief he knows of?

Bucky speaks to Pepper then, and Steve didn’t even know she was still present. Guess he’d kept his eyes closed without realizing it. 

“Pepper, can you put that blanket down there on the floor for him?” There is the sound of movement and Bucky’s voice again, sounding more distant as he looks away from Steve. “Yes, that’s good.” He turns to Steve again. “I need you to lie on the floor, can you do that?”

“Yes,” Steve responds, and cracks his eyes open. 

Then immediately closes them. He can’t stand the light. It’s too much. “It’s so bright,” he whispers, covering his eyes with one hand. It was almost better being blinded in the one eye, this hurts so much.

“I’ll help you,” Bucky promises, and there is more shuffling movement and a metallic sound. 

Pepper must close the blinds on the far side of the room, because he can tell the light recedes even through his closed eyelids. Bucky takes his hands and pulls him forward, toward the floor. Steve barely opens one eye and looks down, seeing a soft looking afghan thrown hastily onto the wood floor. He lies on his back and closes his eye again, feeling rather than seeing Bucky move to sit at his head.

He picks up Steve’s head and slides his own leg under it to support it, sitting sort of next to him and straddling him at the same time. Both hands cradle the back of his head and he starts tugging at it, moving it this way and that in a gentle rhythm. After a few minutes of this, it starts to work. Where there was only pain before, now he can feel the soft blanket underneath his body and Bucky’s sure hands in his hair.

Phase two of this treatment seems to be more of Bucky’s fingers pressing into his scalp, but these spots are different from previous sessions. More on his head, less on his neck and upper shoulders. It’s different, and feels amazingly good. This time the relief is almost instantaneous again. He relaxes and Bucky must be able to tell, because he says in a low, encouraging voice, “That’s right, let your head get heavy in my hands. Take some deep breaths for me.”

Steve complies and little by little becomes consciously aware of how pain-free he now is. It’s hard to comprehend how pain that was almost unbearable could so quickly be transformed into something almost inconsequential, just through the use of a pair of hands. Steve feels calm and at peace…much like the state he wakes in after having his dream of Bucky’s face. 

“Do you want to try and sit up?”

Bucky’s melodious voice brings him back to the present. He opens his eyes and sees that face looking down at him, and the light no longer hurts. He smiles and nods into Bucky’s hands, still cupping his head, and Bucky helps support him as he sits back up on the floor. 

“How did you know how to do that?”

Pepper’s question is full of wonder and astonishment. It’s a good question, one Steve would like to know the answer to as well. He spins and sits cross-legged next to Bucky with his own quizzical expression. Bucky looks at them both but doesn’t answer right away. Steve assumes he’s waiting first to see how he’s feeling sitting up.

“Bucky, thank you. I feel good,” Steve tells him. “How did you know it wasn’t working? And what to do next?” He leans back on his hands behind him on the floor, wanting a better answer than the one he got last time. “And please don’t say ‘I learned it up north’. As a general rule, orthopedic PA’s don’t study techniques like this.”

Bucky is silent for a moment as he seems to mull something over, then shakes his head. “No, they don’t,” he agrees. “Natasha used to have the same kind of headaches. I learned how to treat them for her.”

“What?” Steve and Pepper both say it at the same time. 

Steve latches onto the most pertinent part of that statement. “She _used_ to have them? Not anymore?”

Bucky’s dark head shakes again. “Not anymore.”

Steve wants to ask a whole lot more, but there is the sound of a screen door banging shut and a moment later, Tony steps into the room. Seeing Bucky and Steve sitting on the floor, he stops short. 

“What’s going on in here?” he asks humorously, then points at Steve. “You two weren’t just singing kumbaya, were you?” he jokes.

Pepper rises from the chair she had been sitting on and walks to her husband, wrapping an arm around his waist when she reaches him. 

“You just missed Bucky fixing Steve’s headache.”

Tony looks accusingly at his wife. “You said you needed Bucky to help shuck corn!”

She pinks up a little and Steve immediately takes the blame for that. “That’s my fault, Tony, I asked her not to tell anyone what was going on so no one would worry.”

Bucky has gotten to his feet and extended a hand down towards Steve, which he gladly takes. A moment later he is hauled up to standing and has to endure Tony’s face of concern. 

“You had another one, so quickly?” he frowns, but Steve is just as quick to blow off his worry. 

He can’t stand it when people fret over him. He’s _fine_. “I’m _fine,_ ” he insists. “I’ll help shuck corn, if there’s corn that needs shucking.”

“You just like saying the word shucking,” Tony teases but relents with the third degree. They all walk into the kitchen, with Pepper singing Bucky’s praises. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve sees the look Tony gives him. The one that says, _we’re going to talk about this later._

\--

The “later” comes after dinner as they are preparing to go back down to the beach and watch the sun set. They’ve all changed out of their swim gear and have on regular clothes again. Tony grabs Steve by the arm as he comes out of the loo and pulls him aside, into an unoccupied guest room on the first floor. 

“Alright Steve,” he hisses, sounding angry. “No more dicking around with this. You need to see a specialist, ASAP.”

Opening his mouth to argue, Steve gets cut off. 

“And don’t tell me you have Bucky to fix you. That’s _not_ a cure.” 

“But you heard him,” is Steve’s rebuttal. “Natasha’s headaches did stop. That means mine will, too.”

During dinner, Steve had pressed both Natasha and her brother for more details. The redhead had glanced at Bucky before confirming what he had told them—she used to have pain similar to Steve’s, but it had spontaneously resolved on its own. 

She had looked at him intently before adding her own advice. “I know it’s bad, Steve, but just try to hold on.” Then she’d tossed another brief look at her brother. “And remember, things aren’t always what they seem.”

Steve had furrowed his brow and asked what she meant by that, but then got distracted by Bucky’s glare at his sister, and his assurance that he would continue helping Steve as often as he needed it. Steve thought that sounded like a viable plan, but at the moment, Tony doesn’t seem to agree.

“Just because hers stopped doesn’t mean yours will!” his work partner fires back, and rubs his hand across his forehead. “You don’t know that your headaches even have the same causation. You need to see a doctor!”

“I did already,” Steve replies stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“A specialist,” Tony specifies. “One who sees this all the time, and knows what they’re dealing with.”

“They’re just migraines, Tony, a specialist isn’t going to be able to do anything except drug me up.” 

Dropping his chin in a resolute way, Tony insists, “You don’t _know_ that! And I am not going to just sit here and watch you suffer!” He takes a step closer when Steve doesn’t answer and his eyes turn pleading. “Do it for me then, please?”

Shit. He’s got him by the balls now. Steve’s mouth opens and shuts without sound, his will wavering. 

“Please?” 

_Damnit, Tony._ “Okay. I’ll make another appointment.”

He receives a sigh and a smile, and Tony visibly relaxes. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Steve grumbles; Tony puts his arm around him and claps him on the shoulders as they walk back out from their hiding place and join the others. 

The sunset that evening is on the spectacular side. The bright orange globe sinks down toward the horizon amidst a palette of pinks and reds, and Steve wants to sit there forever, the sense of peace and calm enveloping him completely. Bucky is next to him, their chairs angled westward, the last of the warm rays tickling their faces as the coolness of the night air sneaks in. 

There are multiple small conversations going on when Steve turns to Bucky and asks, “Why did you hesitate to tell me about Natasha’s headaches earlier?” It’s been in his thoughts. If Bucky knew Steve’s condition would improve, why wouldn’t he have shared that information already and given him some peace of mind?

Leaning over the side of his beach chair, Bucky gets close before answering, “Steve, I can’t guarantee that this isn’t going to get worse before it gets better. I didn’t want to give you false hope.”

Steve shakes his head. “But our symptoms are the same, right?”

Bucky nods.

“And _you_ think that’s what will happen too, right?”

Again, Bucky nods. “Yes, I think you’ll be perfectly fine, if you can just wait it out like Nat did. But…” 

Steve doesn’t give him the chance to finish that statement. That’s good enough for him. Holding up one hand, he stops Bucky from going any further. “Say no more. I understand.”

Bucky closes his lips and smiles at him. “You’re not upset?”

Steve’s blond head shakes again. “No, of course not.” He looks at him, and something catches in his throat. Damn emotion. Bucky’s _here_ , in his life, wanting _something_ with him but willing to wait while Steve makes up his bloody mind what _he_ wants. Suddenly it seems trivial and silly to wait any longer. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” he breathes in a quiet voice.

“So am I,” Bucky responds, and there’s so much meaning packed into those three little words, Steve can practically feel the fire smoldering under the surface of them. 

\--

The walk back up to the house is in the semi-darkness, and Steve always underestimates just how fucking black it gets out in the country. He’s so used to the lights of the city, he’s never prepared for how _thick_ the inkiness can be. There are lots of stars out tonight and they can see the lights of the house up in front of them, though, so it’s not too bad. 

Sudden pulses of blue light from their parked cars draw Steve’s eye. There’s another drill going on. He pays it no mind; in fact he’s already dismissed it from his thoughts when Natasha’s voice rings out.

“Tony, why isn’t there blue light coming from your house, too?” 

Steve looks up ahead again and sees that she’s right. Although the two cars are being scanned, there’s only the yellow white lamp light emanating from the windows of the home. 

It’s Pepper’s voice that answers, however. “Because Tony is a stubborn goat when he wants to be,” she says, with laughter in her voice.

“Hey, I _told_ them the scanners had gone out after an electrical storm. And I waited here alone a _whole day_ once for them to come and fix them,” Tony gripes. “It’s not my fault their servicemen are incompetent.”

Pepper is laughing out loud at her husband’s indignation. “After the workers didn’t show the first time, he never called them back to reschedule. I guess we just got lost in a paperwork shuffle.”

Tony clears his throat. “Uh, yeah, about that…”

“What?” Pepper cries out. “You didn’t tell me they called back.”

“Errr,” Tony stalls, sounding uncomfortable. “They left a message. I just haven’t gotten around to calling them again.”

Sam pipes up in the darkness. “I never knew you were such a rebel, Tony.”

They’re about halfway up from the beach to the house and the sandy beach has turned into patchy grass when Steve’s hand brushes against Bucky’s. Just a whisper of knuckle against knuckle, but he instinctively leans into it, searches for it again. All day long he’s been thinking about taking the next step with Bucky, and he feels like it’s time. Desire wells up and the overwhelming urge to hold that hand in his own takes over. He reaches out and finds that warm flesh, presses his palm to it.

Bucky’s head turns in surprise and Steve can see his eyes glittering in the light of the moon as he smiles and clasps Steve’s hand in turn. It feels _good_. And _right_ , having Bucky’s hand in his, matching strides. Steve slows his steps as they near the house and Bucky paces him, letting everyone else pass them by and falling from the middle to the back of the pack. 

If anyone else noticed their linked hands, they didn’t say anything, nor do any heads turn when Steve pulls on Bucky’s arm and ducks behind the huge oak tree with the tire swing attached to it. Bucky has ideas here, too; Steve gets pushed and turned around so his back is against the broad trunk of the tree, which more than conceals even his wide shoulders. 

“Steve,” Bucky says urgently. His hands are splayed across Steve’s chest, having used them to position Steve the way he wanted him, but Steve’s in no mood for conversation.

“Don’t talk,” he breathes back and wraps one hand around the back of Bucky’s neck, pulling him in. Their lips meet, slowly, experimentally, and Steve’s body has never felt like such a live wire. Electricity races through him with starting points at his lips and at the hands pressing into his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt, spreading and heating him up from the inside out. 

His fingers curl around the warm skin of Bucky’s neck and Bucky kisses him back, opening his mouth just slightly, inviting Steve in. Their hot breath mingles and Bucky takes a step in, sliding his hands around Steve’s waist so he can press the entirety of his large chest against Steve’s. His fingertips smooth into the dip at the center of Steve’s back, just over his lumbar spine, and travel slowly upward. 

Steve reaches for Bucky’s shoulder and slides his hand down his hard bicep, greedily touching any part of Bucky’s body he can, wanting more contact. The tip of his tongue meets Bucky’s, just barely touches it, neither moving, both waiting to see what the other will do. Bucky deepens the kiss first and Steve feels himself part moan, part sigh right into Bucky’s mouth when it happens. 

It’s better than he expected. Better than he fantasized it would be. He can feel Bucky’s heart beating wildly in his chest, just like his own as they kiss. It’s deep but not fast, the pace languid and introductory. They don’t have to hurry through it. They’ve got time to make this good, and make it last. The sounds of their friends entering the house grow more faint, then disappear altogether when the screen door bangs shut the last time, just leaving the sounds of their breathing, crickets chirping in the night, and hands rustling over clothing. 

Bucky’s have now reached Steve’s upper back and fan outward over his shoulder blades, palms flat, feeling him everywhere. Under his shirt Steve’s skin tingles wherever Bucky touches him. One of Steve’s hands is still on Bucky’s neck and he slides it upward to finger through his soft hair, never re-captured in a pony-tail when they had changed clothes earlier. 

He uses that hand to tilt Bucky’s head the other way, changing their angle but still kissing long and deep, and it’s Bucky’s turn to moan into his mouth, something low and primal that makes heat start to pool in Steve’s groin. Maybe they shouldn’t kiss _too_ long. He pulls back slowly, gradually, until finally just their lips are touching again, and gives Bucky several short, sweet kisses that won’t contribute so much to the tent he’s got going on at the front of his shorts. 

Releasing the hold he’s got on Steve’s back, Bucky then reaches up to cup both hands on the sides of his face. “What made you change your mind?” he whispers.

“Couldn’t think of a good reason to wait anymore.” 

“Thank the stars for that,” Bucky teases, and lets his hands roam down Steve’s shoulders and arms so he can clasp both their hands together. 

“Well, there are plenty up there,” Steve teases back, eyes flicking upward to the heavens and back to Bucky’s. They linger there, holding hands, knowing they should separate but not really wanting to. 

Finally after one more slow, soft kiss that leaves Steve breathless again, he tugs on Bucky’s hands and pushes off the tree. “Come on, let’s go in before they start getting suspicious inside.”

Bucky laughs softly. “They…” he breaks off and looks down at the tree roots at his feet, though it’s getting so dark Steve wonders he can see them at all, then continues, allowing Steve to pull him along. “They probably already are.”

Walking the remaining distance to the house they continue to share one hand hold, and sure enough when they enter Steve spots several smothered grins aimed in their direction. Clint decides he needs to ride back in Tony’s car because of the extra space in the back seat, leaving Steve and Bucky with the bench seat in Sam’s truck to themselves. 

Even though there’s more space back there for the return trip, they still sit close, knees and everything else on that side of their bodies touching, and Bucky pulls Steve’s hand into his and holds it on his lap. They’re not rude enough to make out in the back seat while Sam is driving, but Steve would be a liar if he said he hadn’t _thought_ about it. At one point he does allow his head to rest on Bucky’s shoulder, and fuck if that doesn’t feel fantastic. 

It’s the best day he’s had in a long while.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky start the next phase of their relationship. The one that involves kissing and touching and moaning. And that's just in the supply closet.

Chapter Seven

The next morning’s ride on the train feels different. Not because of the new story of governmental conspiracy against the populace that Sam tells; that’s exactly the same. 

“This farmer I see regularly down south by the border _swears_ it’s the truth,” Sam contends, eyes big as saucers. 

Clint snorts. “So now the government has _hovercrafts_ it’s using to hunt dissidents down?”

Bucky shrugs one shoulder. “Yeah, I hitched a ride on one just the other day. Really smooth ride,” he jokes. 

Steve nods seriously, playing along. “Well Sam, you better be careful. They’ll be after you before long.”

Sam pulls a face. “You two are hilarious. He said he was down by the border when he _saw_ three people going for the wall, and this thing came whirling in from nowhere, bearing down on them. Then he lost them in the trees.”

“In broad daylight?” Clint asks, squinting into the morning light that flickers across his face as the train barrels along on its track. 

“No, genius, it was at _night_ , obviously,” Sam says impatiently.

“Why would a farmer hang around the wall at night?” Bucky asks.

“He was looking for his dog.” Sam’s voice is the one he’d use when explaining things to young children. “You guys are missing the point.”

“Why would anyone make a run at the wall?” Natasha asks, appearing skeptical with her red head tilted to one side.

Rolling his eyes and taking a swallow of coffee, Sam states what he apparently thinks is obvious. “To _escape_.”

Now he’s got her hooked. “But escape why?” she presses, sounding genuinely interested in his answer. 

Sam leans in toward her and whispers, “Because the government of Sanctuary _lies_ to us about the other territories. So people _sneak out._ That’s the point. ”

Natasha leans in, too, also whispering. “Lie about what?”

Sam’s face is dead serious. “Everything.”

Steve snorts and rolls his eyes. He’s burning to know if Sam really did hear this story from a farmer, or if he made it up just so he could gauge Bucky and Natasha’s reaction to it, but that question will have to wait for later. He’s really more interested in trading looks with Bucky. That’s the part that feels different about this train ride. Since their kiss last night, Steve hasn’t stopped thinking about the gorgeously built, handsome brunet. 

After greeting Bucky warmly as he (and Clint and Natasha) grabbed seats, the two of them had been locking eyes every other minute. Since they can’t have a private conversation on the train with everyone else around, their communication is limited to the non-verbal kind. Bucky’s predatory look says non-verbally _I want to rip your clothes off and lick every square inch of you_ and Steve is fairly certain his own face mirrors that. 

He can’t stop his eyes from moving up and down Bucky’s still form, directly across from him, and with every minute that passes he comes up with dirtier and dirtier thoughts. Thoughts like wrapping his lips around Bucky’s cock and sucking him down, or spreading him open and rimming him until he howls with pleasure. It’s a damn good thing he’s got his lunch bag with him today so it can stay in his lap, pressed down over his uncomfortably tight pants. 

Shit, how is he supposed to get through an entire day’s work with thoughts like this jamming up his brain? Last night before parting, they had agreed to see each other tonight after work for dinner and more TV watching, an evening Steve is hoping will end rather differently than their first outing. _Really,_ really hoping. But first, they’ve got to get through their Monday. 

\--

Mondays suck. 

He’s got surgery all day and doesn’t get to see Bucky AT ALL, damnit, until the very end of the day. After he has showered he sprints down the hall, trying to catch him still in the office. When he comes in through the back hall and asks Tony if he’s seen him, his partner smiles knowingly.

“He’s in the supply room taking inventory, and I’m going to blame you one hundred percent if we end up ordering ten thousand tongue depressors.”

Steve stops in his tracks. “What?” he asks, confused.

Tony laughs. “He’s been starry-eyed all day, loverboy. Guess you’re a better kisser than you look.”

Blushing a deep red to the roots of his hair, Steve turns without a word and heads for the supply closet. Sure enough, Bucky is inside with a clipboard and pencil and gives him the most beautiful smile when he sees him, it turns Steve’s chest into a warm, sappy goo.

“Steve!” he blurts out, clearly surprised as Steve steps in and closes the door behind himself. “I didn’t think I’d get to see you till later.”

His hair is down and slightly mussed, as if he’s been fingering through it while taking stock. Immediately Steve has visions of his own fingers raking through it. Or better yet, pulling it. _Down, boy,_ he thinks to himself. Show some self-control, man. 

“I wanted to get the same train home with you guys,” he responds. “Clint still here?”

“Yeah,” Bucky nods and waves the clipboard airily in a direction behind Steve. “He’s around.” The clipboard gets set down on a shelf and Bucky turns to face him. “Been thinking about you all day.” 

A smile spreads across Steve’s face. “Is that right?”

“That’s right,” Bucky responds smoothly. He takes a step closer. “You and that mouth of yours, and what I’d like you to do with it.” His eyes drop a few inches to study Steve’s mouth, then lift back to his eyes.

Instantly Steve’s groin tightens and a hot flush blooms, making his ears sizzle. “I can think of a few things,” he returns, and takes a step further into the room, so that very little space separates them. 

Closing the remaining distance, Bucky wastes no time and puts his mouth to Steve’s ear. “Then let’s get the fuck out of here so I can find out what they are.” He pulls back only slightly, brushing his hips lightly over Steve’s cheek.

All rational thoughts flee from Steve’s brain. Bucky’s lips on his skin, teasing, taunting, so close to his own mouth, well that’s just as much an aphrodisiac as if Bucky had just shoved his hand down his pants and started fondling his dick. Grasping Bucky’s arms, Steve turns him to put his back to the shelving unit. His leg ends up sandwiched right between both of Bucky’s shapely thighs.

“It’s a long train ride home,” he breathes, and Bucky grins slyly. 

Their mouths are only an inch apart when he rumbles in a low voice, “You want something to tide you over?”

 _Oh my God._ Steve’s pants aren’t just tight right now, they’re threatening to burst open at the seams. His fingers clutch at Bucky’s arms, digging into his firm biceps. “You offering?” 

Bucky’s voice drops in pitch again to a feral growl. “I’m telling you to take what you want.” His gaze moves from Steve’s eyes to his mouth, and that’s the end of it for Steve.

He presses his lips to Bucky’s and immediately relaxes his jaw, sliding his tongue into Bucky’s waiting mouth. The kiss is deep and full of promise of things to come, on _both_ sides. Bucky’s hands find their way around Steve’s slender waist, holding him close as they kiss. Bucky’s mouth is all soft heat, his tongue licking its way into Steve’s mouth just as much as Steve’s licks into his. 

Steve has the sensation he’s floating in mid-air, it feels so fantastic, standing there wrapped up with Bucky, feeling the press of their bodies together. If this is just the prelude to what happens between them tonight, then it’s going to exceed his expectations a million times over. They continue kissing, memorizing the other’s taste and feel, oblivious to anyone or anything outside of that space.

And in the middle of this display of passion, the door to the supply room suddenly gets pulled open. There is a loud bark of laughter which Steve identifies as belonging to Clint and an, “I knew it!” in Clint’s triumphant voice. After that the door gets pushed shut again, just as quickly as it was opened. 

The two men inside have already been startled, and jump apart just as the door closes. 

Blushing furiously for the second time, Steve covers his eyes with one hand and groans. “Oh fuck.” He rests his forehead and hands against Bucky’s chest.

“Was that Clint?” Bucky asks, sounding a little shell-shocked.

Steve nods into his chest. “I’ll never live this down,” he groans, words muffled by Bucky’s pecs. 

Bucky laughs and runs both his hands up Steve’s back in a gesture of comfort. “And why is that exactly?”

Picking up his head, Steve admits, “I said it would be unprofessional to make out in the supply room.”

Laughter bubbles up out of Bucky and Steve can feel him vibrate against him in amusement. “I won’t ask why you and Clint were discussing that in the first place as long as you tell me it was about you and me.”

A smile sneaks across Steve’s face. “It was.”

Bucky’s eyes smolder with a burning fire as he regards Steve, still in his arms. “We need to get out of here right now.” The words seem to come from somewhere deep in his chest, like a grizzly bear is talking instead of a man, and it turns Steve on like crazy.

“One hundred percent,” he says, and stands up straight again. 

As soon as he pulls open the door and the pair of them emerge, there is a smattering of clapping from Clint, Tony, and Darcy down the hall. Bucky promptly gives them the finger and winks at Steve, whose coloring may remain permanently fire engine red after all this blushing. 

Clint is decent enough to not give them a hard time on the train ride home, thank goodness, and Natasha isn’t with them on their return trip today. Steve doesn’t mind the fact that he and Bucky are not alone, though, because even if he got swept away enough to paw at him in the supply room, he’s not about to engage in any PDA on the train, because eww, public area!

It might be the longest ride home he’s ever endured, though. Seriously, was the train running on half power? Finally it deposits them at their stops and Clint and Bucky climb off first. Bucky plans to change and then come right over to Steve’s place.

It takes fucking forever. 

How can it take that long to change clothes and come down one train stop? Steve busies himself with cooking dinner (Italian) but in the back of his mind he keeps thinking about Bucky and how much he really wants to be with him, and wonders why the fuck it took him this long to figure that out. 

And then the image of Bucky’s face, as it appears every night in his dreams, flashes in front of his eyes, and he remembers why. He hasn’t told him about that yet. Should he? Is it really a big deal? The longer he waits, feels like the harder it gets to tell him. What is he so worried about? That Bucky won’t believe him, or that he _will_? Will he think Steve is crazy? Mentally unhinged?

Mechanically he goes through the motions of making his baked ziti, knowing the ingredient list and directions by rote memory. He’s made this dish dozens of times, and it always impresses. Not that he’s made it for any first dates before, or even second or third ones, for that matter. It’s for special occasions only. He supposes this is technically their first date, he and Bucky, though it doesn’t feel like that at all. It feels like a special occasion. 

The ziti is done boiling so he removes it from the stovetop and drains it carefully into the sink, avoiding getting the steam in his face. He’s already got the pan ready and waiting; all it needs is the layers of cheese, sauce, and pasta and it’s good to go into the oven. As he pours sauce all over the ziti, he reflects on how different this date is from his previous experiences. 

He and Bucky already know each other—they’re way beyond simple small talk and the getting-to-know-you basics of a typical first date. And no one else has ever come _close_ to giving Steve feels like Bucky has. No one else has ever made the hair stand up on his arms just by brushing past him in a hallway. No one else has ever made his heart constrict just with a simple glance. 

Maybe he just doesn’t want to take a chance on anything screwing that up. Maybe Bucky doesn’t ever have to know about those dreams. After all, they’re harmless, aren’t they? Why should it matter if Steve has had visions in his sleep? _It doesn’t matter,_ he thinks to himself, trying valiantly to talk himself into believing that. 

Picking up the heavy pan, he turns and sets it on the stove, pulls down the stainless steel door and pops it into the oven. He has a loaf of bread and fixings for a salad, though he doesn’t want to start that until the ziti is closer to being done baking. 

He’s just finished tidying up the kitchen when there is a knock on his door. It’s Bucky, looking ravishing in a steel grey blue shirt that brings out that hue in his eyes. He’s got a bottle of wine, which helps explain the lateness of his arrival, and as he steps in past Steve and he breathes in a lungful of air, he realizes Bucky is freshly showered, too. 

His scent is delicious, clean and woodsy and mouth-watering. His hair is down and looks so soft and touchable, it’s hard for Steve not to run his fingers through it. To busy his hands instead, he digs out a corkscrew from a kitchen drawer and opens the wine, setting it on the counter to breathe for a while. They have close to an hour to kill while the ziti is baking, so they decide to settle on the couch and get in one episode of their comedy show while they wait. 

“Didn’t you say you were going to get the food next time?” Steve observes as he sits down next to Bucky on the couch.

Bucky laughs and pokes him in the gut. “You offered to cook!” 

His other hand is on Steve’s thigh as he shifts in place a bit, and the easy way he touches Steve’s body, as if it was an extension of his own rather than something completely separate, always gives Steve goosebumps. 

“Oh, yeah, I did,” he says distractedly. 

They finish the whole show before the timer for the ziti goes off, sitting cuddled together on the couch. As Steve flips off the TV with the remote control, Bucky turns to him and confesses, “Today took _forever_. I missed you all day.”

As much as Steve loves hearing that, he’s got to get in a tease. Tossing the remote down, he shifts toward Bucky and sneaks one hand around his hip, giving him a squeeze. “It’s called delayed gratification. It’s good for you.”

Bucky is shaking his head. “No. No it’s not,” he playfully argues, leaning in and kissing him lightly on the lips, just a gentle overture. His fingertips trail over Steve’s cheek and then slide to the back of his neck as he applies more short, sweet kisses to Steve’s lips. 

Reaching up with his free hand, Steve runs his fingers over Bucky’s forearm, then covers his hand on the back of his head with his own, holding it there. “Mmmmm,” he murmurs, and captures his mouth for a longer kiss. They deepen it, pressing soft, wet lips together, their tongues lapping in and out of each other’s mouths. Arms go around each other’s bodies, pulling as close as they can get while still sitting up with feet planted on the ground. 

How every kiss can get better and better, Steve doesn’t know. He knows Bucky has mad skills in that department—he’s by far the best kisser he’s ever been with. Will he be the best lover, too? He can’t wait to find out. 

After dinner.

Steve’s just thinking about making their position horizontal when the timer on the stove starts dinging. They are still wrapped around each other on the couch, and it takes several seconds for them to untangle their limbs and reluctantly pull apart. 

“Don’t want your masterpiece to burn,” Bucky says with a lopsided grin.

Smiling, Steve stands and offers Bucky a hand, pulling him up as well. “We’ll pick up where we left off later,” he promises, loving the feral look Bucky gives him. 

Dinner turns out great and Bucky fawns over it, making Steve feel completely appreciated and satisfied. He’s never really thought of himself as the domestic sort, but wow, he’s getting a charge out of taking care of Bucky tonight. Maybe it’s sort of a return gesture for Bucky helping him with his headaches. Maybe Steve just never had anyone to play house with before. 

Whatever the reason, he’s feeling pretty fucking horny and impatient by the time he finishes clearing out the dinner dishes. He had refused Bucky’s help this time, making him sit at the island and wait for him. He’s standing at the kitchen sink with the last dish when Bucky sidles up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist. 

“About that delayed gratification you mentioned,” he starts, and smiles when Steve sets down the dish, spins around inside his arms and embraces him in turn.

“Yeah, where were we?” Steve murmurs seductively, sinking his hands right into the pockets on the back of Bucky’s shorts to cup his ass. 

“I think we were gonna go into the other room and discuss it,” Bucky announces, stepping backward and pulling Steve along with him. 

Steve takes a few half steps, staying with him. “The bedroom?” he asks in a sultry voice, and stops when Bucky stops moving and looks directly into his eyes, surprised. 

“Is that what you want?” he breathes.

“You’re what I want,” Steve responds, then falters. Maybe Bucky didn’t intend for things to go that far…“But…if you don’t…”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Bucky puts his fingers over his mouth to stop him, and his eyes are sparkling excitedly. He turns around so they’re both facing the same direction and steps off toward the bedroom, tugging Steve by the arm. Once he’s in motion again, Steve comes willingly with no prodding needed. When they hit the bedroom door, Bucky slows to a stop and faces him, looking him up and down hungrily. 

“I told you I had ideas about that mouth of yours, didn’t I?” 

“I’ve got some thoughts on that, too,” Steve shares, and leans in to kiss the brunet slowly and thoroughly. 

Reaching down, he pulls at the bottom of Bucky’s shirt till it rides up over his stomach and he grabs it himself to pull it off. As he whips the offending article of clothing off, Steve takes his own shirt off and discards it, then lays both his hands on Bucky’s chest. He’s seen him shirtless at the lake already, but getting to touch him is an entirely different story. Oh, how he’s longing to put his mouth on every single part of Bucky there is, to lick and suck and taste that golden skin, to map it and mark it and make that body _his_.

He dips his head to one side and lays open mouthed kisses on Bucky’s neck, slowly moving up toward his jaw. The skin is soft and supple, and Bucky sighs and tilts his head the other way to bare his throat to him. Steve’s hands have traveled over his pecs, smoothing themselves flat over that broad expanse of muscle, while Bucky’s dexterous fingers work their way through the button and zipper of Steve’s shorts and tug—outward rather than down.

He slides one hand inside Steve’s shorts and over the top of his underwear, a pair of cotton boxer briefs, and puts his palm flat over his rising cock. It’s already most of the way up but not quite there yet. Until Bucky gets his hand on it, that is. Then it’s a pretty short trip from partially hard to raging hard on, and Steve gasping with need. Bucky’s fingers rub over his balls as he palms his cock and slides his hand upward, putting on the perfect amount of pressure. 

Steve moans a little bit with the exquisiteness of Bucky’s hand stroking him, a deep, throaty sound that may or may not have coincided with his cock twitching and jumping inside his pants. He buries his face in the side of Bucky’s neck, kissing and licking at that delicate skin, breathing him in, tasting everywhere he can. Bucky wraps his fingers around his thickening shaft, pulling at it with a pace that slowly builds, till Steve is ready to scream.

If he’s just trying to wind him up, he’s doing a bang-up job. If he’s trying to make him come, he’s doing a fan-fucking-tastic job. Steve grinds in against Bucky’s hand, rocking his pelvis forward rhythmically as he gets worked over by those magical fingers. He brings his mouth to Bucky’s, not quite kissing but sharing the same air for a few shallow breaths before he speaks. 

“Don’t stop,” he whispers against Bucky’s open mouth, and Bucky whispers back, “Wasn’t planning to.”

He sweeps his tongue across Steve’s parted lips, then dives in for a deep, sensuous kiss. His free hand has snuck its way around Steve’s waist and down inside his shorts as well, settling over one cheek of his butt and squeezing it possessively. 

Steve is completely enthralled, completely at the mercy of Bucky’s fingers and mouth. Still kissing, he clings to him, desperately wanting that touch on his body, frantically needing the pleasure that Bucky is giving to him so freely. The front of his underwear is wet, and it’s about to get a lot wetter because Bucky slides his hand inside his underwear and starts jerking him off in earnest, and it’s the goddamn best thing Steve’s felt in _forever_. 

Bucky has one strong arm around him, gripping his ass, and the other hand down his pants jacking him off, and all Steve can do is stand there and let him have his way with him. Hot, fever-inducing friction on his cock has paralyzed him so much that all he can do is moan…and the moans start pouring out of his mouth unchecked. Moans that get swallowed up by Bucky at first, then fill the air in the room with nonsensical, panting noise when they separate to breathe. 

“Oh Buck, _yes_ ,” Steve groans, wrapping his arms around his wide shoulders and reaching up with both hands to sink his fingers into the long hair that falls from his head. His fingers dig in and he kisses Bucky on the mouth again, hard, plunging his tongue into that warm, wet space. 

It’s coming. His orgasm. He’s hot and tingly all over, and a pulsating wave of pleasure takes him. It starts deep in his groin and spreads outward, making every cell in his body vibrate with lusty need. Bucky keeps at him, stroking him like his life depends on Steve having the most gigantic orgasm he’s ever had. God, it’s close to being more stimulation than he can handle, and he realizes just how long it’s been since anyone has touched him like this. 

A long time. It’s been a long time. Most, okay, _all_ of his recent blind dates never got anywhere near this stage. Bucky…Bucky is special. Not just a hook-up. He wants Bucky to be _his_ , and that’s what makes this even more remarkable. Knowing that Bucky wants him too…it makes him feel amazingly good. 

The magic fingers are pulling him closer and closer to that finish line. A fine mist of sweat forms on Steve’s chest from Bucky working him over. He’s probably got that red flush that goes all the way down his chest, the flush that always embarrasses him, but somehow it doesn’t matter now. Nor do the obscene sounds coming out of his mouth, because he wants Bucky to know how much he excites him, how much he _wants_ him. 

No better way than to come all over him, right? His cock jumps and his release comes, going all over Bucky’s hand and wrist, and his own undies and stomach. Steve cries out when it happens and leans heavily against Bucky’s body, muscles slowly becoming loose and slack as he rides it out, wheezing for air. 

Fuck, that was fantastic. And that was just a hand job! Already he wants more and visualizes himself going down and taking Bucky’s erection deep into his mouth. Bucky’s got to be hard as hell right now, and he wants his lips on that thickness ASAP. A small corner of his brain realizes he needs to clean up, and he’s kind of sorry for making a mess of his companion’s hand, but not _really_ sorry. 

He’s hoping for a lot more mess before this is over.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut, and nothing but the smut. :-)

Chapter Eight

Steve takes a few more wheezing, shallow breaths as he clings to Bucky, gradually coming down from his orgasmic high. Finally he breaks out of his inert state and delivers a gentle shove that sends Bucky tumbling down onto the bed. Letting himself fall willingly, the only slightly smaller man lands on his back with a soft _whump_ and a softer chuckle, and hikes himself up on his elbows toward the pillows at the top of the bed. 

“Come over here,” he says quietly, and the heat in his voice is enough to make Steve’s blood boil. 

Even in the dim light, he can see and feel Bucky’s eyes on him, and his already skyrocketing heartrate jumps even more. Reaching for the floor, he grabs his shirt before climbing up and joining Bucky, grabbing his messy hand and wrist and cleaning it off. As he does so he kneels and bends over Bucky’s still form to kiss his chest, right at the center, then continues up his sternum right to the hollow at the base of his throat. Multi-tasking at its finest. There he dips his tongue into that depression and licks lazily upward through it. Holy hell, does he taste good. Bucky reaches for the back of Steve’s head with his free hand, guiding his mouth to his and kissing him equally languidly. 

Steve lets Bucky’s tongue twist around his, sighing contentedly into his mouth. Now that he and Bucky are together he can’t imagine any other way to be. Every touch, every caress is exactly what he imagined it could be and should be. Every kiss makes him feel they were meant to be together. Sex is great and all, but this feels like _more_. Giving his own abdomen a hasty swipe and throwing his shirt somewhere down over the edge and to the floor, he pulls away from Bucky’s kiss. Not because the kissing isn’t awesome, but because he wants to make for the bottom of the bed and ruck Bucky’s remaining clothes down over those svelte hips to pull them from his body entirely.

His partner thoughtfully helps out as best he can, lifting his rear at the right time and helping to kick off his shorts. Once Bucky is naked, Steve thinks about taking his own shorts off but doesn’t bother. His underwear is already wrecked anyway, so what’s the point right now? He’s got better things to do, like get between Bucky’s strong legs and swallow his cock down; he’s so hungry for it he just can’t wait. 

Almost at the same instant his lips touch the soft skin on the head of Bucky’s shaft, Steve moans…exuberantly. _Yes. More._ He licks at Bucky, circling his tip, tracing a wet pattern around it artfully before wrapping his hand around the base and fisting him. He takes the head into his mouth and closes his lips around it, giving him a long, hard suck. Bucky arches beautifully and throws his head back on a pillow. 

As Steve looks up he can see Bucky’s Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat; he swallows, then opens his mouth and lets out a wanton groan, laced with lust and desire. Steve tightens his lips and sucks just at the tip of his cock, then slides it deeper into his mouth, lips meeting the side of his hand to cover his length completely.

He does some bobbing of his own, sucking that thick shaft into his mouth deeply then pulling off, almost to the tip, and back again, at the same time stroking him with his fist, fingers curled tightly around him. He gives him a little twist on every upstroke, and that has Bucky moaning again in no time, bleating tiny _Steve_ ’s and _yes_ ’s into the night. 

Christ, Bucky’s voice sounds so sexy, saying his name while he blows him, Steve’s getting hard again. Every slide of his lips, every lick of his tongue up the side of Bucky’s long, rock-hard cock, turns him on more and more. He can’t decide what he wants more, to make Bucky come using his mouth, or have Bucky fuck him and feel him come when he’s inside him.

Bucky is so wet already, surely it won’t be long before he erupts, so Steve stays where he is. He teases him, flicking the tip of his tongue in and out of the slit at the head of his cock and mouthing him, running his wet, parted lips down one side and up the other, moaning faintly and letting the vibration travel up and down his length.

Having his cock inside his mouth, filling it up so completely, is arousing as fuck, but Steve’s got more than just a mouth to offer. He lets his hands do some exploring as he closes over him once more and sucks. One hand runs over the soft skin in the inside of his thigh as the other grips his cock tightly. Bucky uses his hands, too, clutching at Steve’s short hair, and the sensation of Bucky’s long, delicate fingers all over his head, digging into his hair, is remarkably stimulating. 

It spurs Steve on, makes him pick up his pace and shift his level of enthusiasm into overdrive. Letting go of Bucky’s cock with his hand, he deep throats it as much as he can, taking it in till the tip is nudging the back of his throat. Bucky whines in the most rewarding way so Steve pulls off and repeats the motion, sucking his cock down as far as possible with his lips sealed tightly around it. He moves it in and out, faster than before, trying to bring Bucky off so he can taste him.

“Steve… Steve, oh God,” Bucky gasps. “Almost there.”

Damn, Steve hopes so, because his own cock is almost hard enough to start working on his second orgasm, and he can’t let Bucky fall behind, now can he? A few more long, hard sucks and slides of his tongue and Bucky’s low pitched whine is transformed into a higher pitched whimper, with some repetitive _oh oh oh_ ’s mixed in. 

Steve’s got both hands on Bucky’s hips, holding him down on the bed when he orgasms and hot fluid hits the back of his throat. Greedily he swallows it all, keeping Bucky’s cock embedded in his mouth until it’s all over. With a sated groan, Bucky relaxes his taut muscles once his orgasm is complete, and his curled fingers straighten out on the back of Steve’s head. 

In no particular hurry, Steve kisses his way back up Bucky’s stomach, leaving a line of wet-lipped kiss marks straight up the center of his abdominals as his fingers caress those tight, defined ridges of muscle. Bucky’s body is beautiful to see and even more beautiful to _feel_. Even if Steve had been blind he’d still be able to tell just how gorgeous Bucky was, by only the contours of his body. 

As it is, though, luckily he’s _not_ blind and can use both his eyes and his mouth to drink in the beauty that is Bucky. Dragging just the tip of his tongue off to one side, he traces the lower line of Bucky’s rib cage outward while his fingertips slide upward, searching out one nipple and rubbing over it in tiny circles. 

He finds it with his mouth next, closing his lips over that taut nub, sucking it gently inside his mouth with an ebullient _Mmmmm_ and loving the way it tightens under his touch. He’d like to reach down and stroke himself while he plays with Bucky’s nipple, but inside his shorts he’s now got a cooling, sticky mess to deal with, so he ignores that urge in favor of finding Bucky’s other nipple. 

He only gets to rub it and roll it under his fingers for a moment, still suckling its mate in his hot mouth, before Bucky takes action of his own. His little cries of ecstasy, while music to Steve’s ears, weren’t nearly as much of a thrill as it was to have Bucky surge up off the bed and toss Steve down on his back, reversing their positions. 

Steve is taken completely by surprise when he is manhandled, but he gasps in delight as his back hits the bed, liking the provocative move. Who knew easygoing Bucky would be a lit firecracker in the bedroom? Immediately Bucky moves in over him and crushes his mouth to Steve’s, with his hands planted on the bed on either side of his head and his knees outside his hips. Grinding his cock down against Steve’s, its only then he seems to realize that Steve still has clothes on, and that they’re getting in his way. 

Pulling his head back enough to speak, he growls, “Get your damn shorts off,” before kissing him again fiercely. With one hand he reaches down and tugs at Steve’s open fly, trying to hurry him along. 

“Working on it,” Steve grouses playfully, in between sloppy kisses. 

He’s got his shorts and underwear pushed down low, past his hips, but with Bucky on top of him he’s got no way of bringing his knees up to remove his clothing completely. Bucky’s on top of that too, though, so to speak, picking up one leg and moving to Steve’s side to give him the necessary space. 

Once the clothes have been kicked off, he presses his hand to Steve’s side and pushes gently. “Roll over for me,” he orders, his mouth close to Steve’s, eyes drilling into his. 

“What?” Steve says, even though he heard the words perfectly well. His brain just needs a moment to catch up, because Bucky is looking at him like he’s the main entrée of his evening meal.

“Roll over,” Bucky repeats, and noses his way along Steve’s jawline, teasing him. “I’ve got a tongue to use, too.”

Steve would say, “Yeah, it was just down my throat,” if he wasn’t busy being struck dumb by the thought of Bucky’s tongue all over him and what he’s planning on doing with it once Steve rolls over. He’s on his stomach in a nanosecond, huffing out an expectant breath into a pillow as he gets comfortable with his arms wrapped around it, hugging it. His cock is standing tall, trapped between the mattress and his stomach, but he’s not concerned with that right now. Not when he can feel Bucky hovering behind him. He turns his face toward that presence when he feels a kiss get pressed to his shoulder.

“Steve,” Bucky says in a hushed voice from behind him, “You’re so beautiful. Every part of you.”

Steve’s breath catches in his throat. _Bucky_ is the beautiful one, the captivating one, not him. His touch alone is enough to raise goosebumps on hot flesh. Softly and smoothly, his lips and tongue move down across Steve’s shoulder blade, and it’s delightful. Feather light touches of his hair drag along behind his mouth, and Steve tingles and shivers everywhere his skin is touched. Bucky’s hand slips down over the small of his back, caressing him, then slips down even lower, right between his cheeks to press lightly at his hole with the pad of one finger. 

Steve lets out a sharp intake of air and arches up to meet that pressure. _Oh fuck, please._ He already got one wish tonight, to make Bucky come with his mouth. Would it be too much to ask for, to have Bucky fuck him? His new lover is moving leisurely down his body, now kissing along his spine as his finger rubs over Steve’s entrance. 

Then the mouth is gone and Bucky’s hands slide between his thighs, pulling them apart. The bed dips behind him as Bucky lies down at the far end, between Steve’s legs, and _oh fuckity fuck_ he’s gonna do _that_? 

A whine of anticipation escapes before Steve groans, “Buck, God yes,” and now the concern for his cock is real, because it just took a jump of excitement even though there’s no room there for movement of any kind. Maybe he can slide a hand down before Bucky…

… _FUCK FUCK FUCK_. 

Hot tongue just touched him, sweeping over his hole and back, and _Bucky_ makes a filthy sound of appreciation that leaves Steve breathless with need and squeezing his eyes shut tight. Hands are spreading him wide so Bucky can bury his face between his cheeks. Five o’clock shadow rasps against Steve’s skin. Bucky licks at him with long, slow strokes of his tongue, and it’s already driving Steve mad. When he kisses that puckered skin and sucks at it, Steve can’t stop the piercing moan that starts at the bottom of his throat and comes out in several choppy, lustful syllables, each one louder than the one before. There are no words to describe this kind of ecstasy.

Bucky doesn’t stop, alternating between rubbing his finger over his hole and dragging his tongue over and around it, rimming him relentlessly. Steve desperately wants to get a hand on his cock and start stroking himself, but can’t quite get his muscles coordinated enough to move. Instead he shakes and shivers, and pants shallow breaths into his pillow as Bucky continues his delicious assault. 

“Damn, you taste so good,” he murmurs at one point, when Steve is halfway between insanity and unconsciousness, and then his tongue delves even deeper, pushing in against him and fluttering wildly. 

_JESUS CHRIST._ “Fuck I’m gonna come,” Steve warns, and wonders at the fact that Bucky has him reduced to this, and he’s not even inside him yet. That tongue, slick and fast, probing him, tasting him, taking him apart little by little, it’s too much. And not enough. He wants more, needs more. 

Bucky is on the same page, because he pulls back and groans, “Steve, I wanna fuck you. _Please_ …please let me fuck you.” 

Those words are finally enough to galvanize Steve into some sort of action. “Yes. Yes, _now_ ,” he moans and reaches one hand out, fumbling for the bedside table and the drawer he’s got some lube stashed in. After a few near misses, his fingers finally land on the knob he’s looking for and he hastily pulls it open. His questing fingers land right on the bottle and he tosses it back in Bucky’s direction.

“Hurry,” he pleads, because he’d like to come when Bucky is inside him, pounding into him, but damnit his erection is huge and pulsing and he’s not going to make it much longer. The little grinds of his pelvis he’s got going on are enough to create some friction on his cock, but he wants more. He hears the bottle get snapped up and opened, and then slick fingertips move into the cleft between his cheeks and Bucky gently pushes in with one finger, breaching him.

He makes short work of stretching Steve out, either because he knows how desperate he is, or he’s in the same shape. Either way, it works for Steve. Bucky’s fingers slip in and out; he crooks them and scissors them in the most tantalizing way. Before Steve knows it, he’s got three fingers in knuckle deep, and how’d he do that so fast without it hurting? Steve hasn’t been fucked in a good long while, as his aforementioned dating history indicated. 

He doesn’t let just anyone fuck him, after all. Typically during a first time with a potential partner, he would find himself doing the fucking, though he enjoys it both ways. This, though, this is perfectly okay, and he hears himself purr like a damn cat when Bucky removes his fingers and replaces them with the head of his cock. 

Pausing, Bucky smooths one hand over Steve’s low back and whispers, “Okay?”

Steve nods into his pillow. “Get inside me,” he whispers back, turning his head to one side so Bucky can hear him. 

Leaning up over him, Bucky gives him one more kiss on the corner of his mouth before slowly pushing in, leveraging himself with his hands on the bed around Steve’s torso. As soon as he’s been penetrated, Steve is on cloud nine. As that thick length slides home and fills him, another sensation hits. That protected, happy feeling of belonging he gets every time he wakes with Bucky’s face swimming in front of his eyes. It’s just like this. _It’s just like this._

The realization makes him gasp out loud, and Bucky halts his advance, concerned he’s hurting Steve. “Baby, you okay?” he asks, and his comforting hand is on Steve’s back again.

“Hell yes, don’t stop,” Steve entreats him. He’s more than okay. He’s fabulous. He’s right where he needs to be and with who he needs to be with. He’s never, _ever_ felt like this during sex, but it’s the best thing in the world. It’s so _right_ with Bucky, and it would never be this right with anyone else. Bucky is _his_ , and he wants to be Bucky’s, heart and soul. 

Bucky still seems concerned with his well-being, though; he hasn’t pulled out, but hasn’t seated himself fully yet either. He’s waiting, waiting for something else before continuing. 

“Please, Buck,” Steve begs, turning his head and pleading in the dim light. “I need you.”

That does it. 

“I need you, too,” Bucky whispers. His voice trembled just a bit and it makes Steve want him all the more. 

“Then take me, I’m yours,” Steve responds, and though he never thought such cheesy words would come out of his own mouth, they don’t seem cheesy in this moment. 

“Oh, _Steve_ ,” is Bucky’s impassioned reply, and then he’s moving again, thrusting himself deep inside Steve’s body. 

Steve’s eyes roll to the back of his head as Bucky rolls his hips and fucks into him rhythmically. He’s so deep and Steve feels so _full_ , it’s incredible. Bucky leans in closer to kiss the back of his neck, and the change in angle is magical. Every thrust now brings the head of his cock right up against Steve’s prostate, and that bundle of nerve fibers _sings_ with raw pleasure. 

“Oh, FUCK!” he cries out, squeezing his pillow into a shape no pillow should ever be subjected to. 

The snapping of Bucky’s hips speeds up minutely—he’s not up to full power yet and already Steve is on the verge of total collapse. Good thing he’s lying prone already, because his legs feel like jelly. His cock is on fire, though. Every time Bucky slams into him they move against the bed, but it gives him only a portion of the friction he needs. He can feel his cock is wet, leaking pre-come from the tip, and he’s nearing his peak. 

Bucky’s warm breath is on his neck. “Up, baby,” he directs him, and slides one hand under the point of Steve’s hip to indicate direction. “I wanna feel you come again when I do.”

Oh, _shit._ Somehow Steve manages to get to his knees, though he’s surprised they’ll take any of his weight right now. Bucky stays draped tightly behind him as he shifts to the new position, keeping himself sheathed inside Steve’s body the entire time so he never loses that feeling of being filled. As soon as there’s clearance, his hand snakes around and grips Steve’s cock firmly. 

Once Steve gets to his knees and stops moving, Bucky starts again, rocking his hips and undulating behind him while at the same time stroking his cock. He picks up steam almost immediately and _fucking hell_ it feels so good Steve is almost seeing stars. Bucky’s thick cock slides in and out of him and his fingers curl around his cock, pulling and tugging at it, twisting and pumping up and down exquisitely. 

Steve is so consumed by his own imminent orgasm that he forgets Bucky is about to have one too—until low keening noises burst from the man behind him and the battering ram pace speeds up to jackhammer pace. Long, pounding strokes give way to shorter but no less deep ones. Bucky barely pulls out before driving back in, bottoming out so his thighs slap against Steve’s ass smartly with each push. 

He cries out when he comes, muscles straining against Steve’s backside, and damn if that isn’t enough to take Steve over the edge, then nothing ever would. He spills over Bucky’s hand with a cry of his own, fiery blazing heat filling him and tearing through his body in wracking spasms. Even Steve’s vision turns red at the edges as wave after wave of ethereal pleasure rolls through him. They ride out the aftershocks together, gradually slowing their breathing and the rocking of their bodies. 

Collapsing onto his stomach again with a weary sigh, Steve feels completely sated and completely exhausted. Bucky collapses on top of him, his body a comforting, warm weight pressing him into the mattress. He rolls to one side and gently strokes Steve’s back with his clean hand. They’ve made quite a mess of the comforter, not that Steve would change _anything_ that just happened, but it’s inconvenient since he really could fall asleep right now and knows he should clean up first. 

“Steve…” a hazy voice calls to him distantly and he tries to focus on it. “Steve…”

It’s Bucky, whispering into his ear and stroking his hair. “Over, baby.”

Obediently Steve does as the voice commands, and a warm, damp towel is pressed to his stomach to begin cleaning him up. When did Bucky even go to the bathroom to get that? Sleepily Steve wonders if he already fell asleep and didn’t hear or feel Bucky move. 

“Bucky, you don’t have to…” he mumbles, and opens his eyes. 

Bucky appears over him, leaning down to kiss him tenderly on the lips. “I want to.”

He’s tugging at the comforter underneath Steve, trying to pull it out of their way. Steve is awake enough to help, but just barely. Bucky does the lion’s share of the work, but eventually they are both clean and under the sheet of the bed, snuggled together. That part Steve was fully able to participate in, curling his body around Bucky’s as soon as he levered himself back into the bed next to him.

He’s got his face buried in Bucky’s neck and one arm thrown over his chest, keeping him captive. One leg is thrown over Bucky’s as well, like no amount of contact between their bodies is going to be enough. Bucky has one arm under Steve’s head, acting as a pillow, and his other hand traces light designs over the forearm Steve has draped over his chest. 

“Steve,” he whispers, and Steve murmurs a sleepy “Mmmm?” into his collarbone, kissing it reverently. 

“I…” 

Bucky starts to say something and then stops, and Steve fills in the gaps for him as best he can in his post-sex drugged state. 

“Buck, stay with me,” he mumbles. “Don’t leave.”

He feels Bucky’s head shake. “I’m not leaving,” he replies, and gives Steve’s forearm a squeeze. 

“Good.” 

Settling down next to him, Steve drifts off into peaceful slumber, sleeping soundly till morning. 

\--

He comes to himself slowly, feeling warm and cozy, the feeling you can only get when there’s another human being sharing your bed. He’s on his side with Bucky spooning behind him, one arm slung over his hip. They are naked, of course, still under the sheet. He wakes like he always does… with a picture of Bucky’s face in his head and a sappy, everything’s-glowing-around-the-edges sensation that fades incrementally as his consciousness increases. 

Once he is fully awake, he realizes he was dreaming of Bucky as he normally does, even with the real Bucky here with him. It’s not disconcerting, though, it’s actually rather pleasant. The happy dream feeling is replaced not by loneliness, but by more happiness, knowing that Bucky is _right here_. 

It’s still mostly dark, just a hint of the sun rising, and he picks up his head to look at the time… and then freaks the fuck out, bolting upright in bed when he realizes that _it’s Tuesday_ and they both have to go to work, and Bucky has been here all night… 

“Morning, gorgeous.”

Steve jumps again when he belatedly notices that Bucky is _awake_ next to him already. “Morning.” He looks at the clock again, but before he has time to get any words out, Bucky lays a hand on his forearm to relax him, and _criminy,_ Steve can never get enough of the way Bucky touches him. 

“Don’t worry about the time. I have plenty to get back to my place,” he tells him, sounding perfectly calm.

Steve lets his stiff muscles relax. Oh yeah, he’s sore, but that’s a small price to pay for mind-blowing sex. “You been awake long?” he asks, and reaches with one hand to stroke Bucky’s soft hair. 

Bucky sits up as well and kisses Steve’s shoulder. “Nope,” he shakes his head, “Just woke up before you did.” 

“I can’t believe we slept all night,” Steve groans. “Did you sleep well?” he queries. He slept like a _rock_. 

Bucky smiles and nods. “You?”

“Like a baby.” 

Should he tell him? About the dreams? Now would be the perfect time. Just open your mouth and spit it out. _I have these dreams…_

He looks at Bucky, and everything feels so perfect, so natural. He could wake up to this every day. 

“Bucky…”

“Yes?” Bucky’s handsome face turns toward his expectantly.

“I’m glad you stayed.” 

_You are such a chickenshit_. 

Bucky ruffles Steve’s short, bed-mussed hair and beams. “Me too.”


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations. And the shit starts hitting the fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just back from ComicCon Seattle! Seeing Sebastian was wonderful and I hugged him so tightly I might have squashed his internal organs, but he is such a good sport! And he smelled really great! Really missed both of the Chris hotties though. :\ But at any rate, it's good to be home.

Chapter Nine

Bucky left to get ready for work just a few minutes later, planting a sweet kiss to Steve’s forehead and telling him to stay in bed. Steve had complied, but the bed felt a lot colder once Bucky was gone. He didn’t like that very much, and also didn’t like knowing he missed an opportunity to tell him about the dreams, but he really couldn’t work up too many fucks to give about that, because he and Bucky are together now and they just had amazing sex. 

Even more importantly, he felt very _connected_ to him emotionally throughout the entire experience, in a way he can’t really explain. But it’s a way he likes, so there’s that. He really can’t believe they slept all night together afterward—it really wasn’t _that_ late when they both fell asleep in each other’s arms. Were they that exhausted? Or did it just feel so comfortable, so normal that they both went into complete domestic bliss mode? He’s mulling this over when he pops next door to pick up Sam for work. 

Sam, best friend and super asshole. Sam, who opens the door, looks him up and down and says, “Damn, Steve, you really going to work looking like that?”

Steve looks down, checking to make sure he remembered to put on pants, shirt and shoes in the right order. Yep, looking good. Confused, he looks back up. “Like what?”

“Like you just got _fucked._ ” 

He’s got that cheesy grin, the one he gets when he thinks he’s being really funny. Steve rolls his eyes and sighs. 

“How’d you know?” 

He and Bucky weren’t _that_ noisy last night. Clint. Had to be Clint. 

Sam laughs and pulls his door shut. “Clint.”

“I hate that guy.”

Sam laughs again, louder this time, and slaps Steve on the back as they start down the hall. “Sure you do.”

\--

The next three weeks fly by as Steve spends as much time with Bucky as is humanly possible, and is as happy as is humanly possible. The only thing spoiling his glee is his recurring headache, now growing undeniably and steadily worse in intensity and frequency. At the moment they are currently at Bucky’s place, which is technically Natasha’s place, but Nat is great about giving them some space when they are there. Besides, Steve really has enjoyed getting to know her better anyway and doesn’t mind at all when she’s there with them. 

In this instance, though, he and Bucky are alone, having just arrived from the market to make a late dinner. It’s Thursday, which means Nat is at the gym and won’t be back for a while. Steve and Bucky had plans to go, but at the end of their work day a massive headache nearly brought Steve to his knees. Bucky had been able to relieve it, having Steve lie down on one of the treatment tables in their office, but afterwards Steve was not in the mood to sweat.

Unless maybe it was sweating with Bucky in the bedroom. He could maybe muster up some enthusiasm for _that_. Every time they’ve had sex Steve thinks it can’t get better, and then it does. His ass is still sore from the pounding Bucky gave him two days ago, but he’s ready for round two and re-paying the favor anytime Bucky wants it. 

They are unloading their groceries in the kitchen when he turns and sees Bucky from the rear, reaching up to put a package of rice up in a cupboard. Damn, his ass is just _superb._ Reaching out and pinching that firm muscle, Steve makes a subtle overture. “How ‘bout a little of this for dessert later?”

Laughing, Bucky shuts the cupboard door and turns, wrapping his arms around Steve’s waist. “Wasn’t it you who wanted to skip working out and take it easy tonight?”

“Well, yeah,” Steve agrees, grudgingly. “But that’s _different_.” 

Lifting his arms, he rests his forearms on Bucky’s shoulders and leans in for a kiss. Bucky leans in, too, and it’s soft and sweet and yummy, just gentle touches of their lips. Bucky tilts his head and nibbles at his earlobe.

“How is your headache, by the way?” he murmurs in between nibbles. 

Steve’s got his eyes closed, enjoying the sensation of Bucky’s mouth on him. “It’s almost gone,” he mumbles. “And maybe the doc tomorrow will have some suggestions. I doubt, it but maybe,” he adds. 

True to his word, after promising Tony he would see a specialist he had called the neurologist’s office and made another appointment. He still was of the opinion that it wouldn’t do any good, but a promise was a promise, and Tony did have his best interest at heart. Thinking about the night of that conversation reminds him of his first kiss with Bucky, and that brings a wide grin to his face. 

He opens his eyes to look at the person responsible for that smile, and that’s when it falls from his face. “Buck, what’s wrong?” 

Bucky has gone sheet white, staring at Steve with unblinking eyes. “What doc?” he breathes, and his grip around Steve’s hips tightens. 

Steve’s brow furrows. Didn’t he tell Bucky about the appointment tomorrow? He thought for sure he did. “The neurologist,” he explains. “Tony wanted me to go in, so I said I would.” He shakes his head as Bucky’s mouth falls open a bit and he continues staring, now looking aghast. “I don’t think it will help, but it can’t hurt, can it?”

Bucky’s grip is like iron. “Steve, you have to cancel that appointment.” He looks _horrified_ , and what the _hell_ is going on here?

“Why? Why do I have to cancel it?” Steve asks, confused. “The schedule at work has already been adjusted. I thought I told you this already.” He smooths Bucky’s hair back away from his face. “What’s the matter, babe?”

But Bucky must suddenly realize he’s squeezing Steve pretty tightly, because he lets go and steps back, pulling away from him. 

“Steve, you _can’t._ You _can’t_ see the neurologist. Please, for me.” He looks desperate, eyes wide and pleading. “Please _don’t go in there._ ”

Steve knows his own mouth is open, silently starting to form another _Why?_ What’s got Bucky so fucking spooked? He shakes his head to clear it. “You’re starting to scare me. Tell me what’s wrong,” he insists. 

Bucky steps back in and crowds him up against the kitchen counter, eyes drilling holes right into Steve’s, hands on his chest. “I know exactly what they’re going to tell you, and it’s all lies. You _can’t go._ I’m begging you.” 

“What’s all lies? How do you know what they’re going to tell me?” Bucky’s answer isn’t an answer at all. It’s just more questions. Bucky stares at him silently for a good ten seconds, so long Steve thinks he’s not going to answer, but then there is an almost imperceptible nod from him. 

“You need to sit down for this, so I can tell you everything.”

Feeling a little disoriented, Steve lets himself be led over to the couch. He sits down when Bucky does, barely feeling the cushion under his butt as he sinks down onto it. Tell him everything. What does that mean? Bucky’s been keeping secrets? He examines Bucky’s face and sees only fear and concern, and something about that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. What is Bucky so afraid of?

“Steve…” Bucky starts, then pauses and chews his lip. “They’re going to tell you something about your headaches, but it’s not true. I promise you it’s not true.”

“What are they going to tell me?” Steve’s heart thumps in his chest. 

Bucky watches him carefully, judging the effect of his next words. “That it’s brain cancer. That it’s…what do you call it? Echo.” 

Instantly Steve’s muscles freeze up. He can’t even swallow the lump in his throat. It sits there, feeling like it’s going to choke him. He forces it down and whispers, “Echo?” His worst nightmare. The one thing he dreaded most of all…

“You don’t have Echo, Steve,” Bucky says succinctly, slowly. “There’s no such thing.”

There is a fog filling Steve’s head, but those words pierce their way through it. “What are you talking about? Of course there is. I’ve _seen_ it.” Steve thinks back to the woman on the train, and it suddenly strikes him that his own headaches have gotten to be very nearly as bad as that woman’s seemed to be. Cold fear wraps itself around his heart and squeezes. 

“But my MRI was negative…” he murmurs, almost more to himself than to Bucky, but Bucky nods emphatically. Steve focuses his eyes on the brunet again. “I’ve _seen_ patients with Echo,” he repeats, and Bucky shakes his head slowly.

“You saw people who were going through something, something you know nothing about, because certain members of your medical community, your government, they’ve been covering it up for years. Decades.”

Eyes narrowing and doubt increasing, Steve exclaims, “What? What have they been covering up?” 

Bucky shifts uncomfortably. “What you call Echo is actually a natural change your brain is going through. It’s not fatal. It only happens to a fragment of the population, but our scientists think it’s the future for all humans.”

Steve sits back, stunned. What the actual FUCK is going on here? What is Bucky talking about? “What scientists? What change?” he asks suspiciously, still searching Bucky’s face for some hidden smile that will tell him this is all just a practical joke. There’s no smile, though. He looks dead serious, and now nervous.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out, Bucky says bluntly, “The ability to hear thoughts, without them being verbalized.”

Steve is silent as he stares at Bucky, waiting for the punch line. It doesn’t come. 

“Telepathy,” Steve asserts. It’s not a question. He rubs his hands over his face and lets out a derisive laugh. “Come on, Buck. Do you _hear_ yourself? This isn’t funny anymore.” He shakes his head. This isn’t true. It _can’t_ be true. Why is Bucky doing this? “Did Sam put you up to this?”

It’s a weird joke. Gotta be. Whatever game Bucky and Sam are playing, he’s not going along with it for another minute. He starts to stand up, but Bucky’s hand shoots out and captures his wrist, keeping him in place. Steve sits back down.

“Sam had nothing to do with this. I know this is what’s going to happen….” He pauses and swallows hard. “…because it happened to me.”

What the…? Angrily, Steve shakes off the hand holding him. “ _Enough,_ Buck. This isn’t _funny_!”

“I’m not laughing,” Bucky states flatly. “I know it’s hard to hear, but it’s the truth. Nat and I are both telepathic.” He stares into Steve’s eyes, blue eyes blazing with feeling. “And you’re about to be, too. But you _cannot_ submit yourself for examination at the Center.”

“Or what?” Steve scoffs. 

“Or they’ll try and stop it.”

“What? How?” It just gets more and more incredulous. People in the building he and Bucky and Clint work in, lying about medical conditions and covering up the truth? Not possible. 

Bucky licks his lips nervously. His eyes track across both of Steve’s. “They’ll operate on you, experimentally, but they don't know have a clue what they’re doing, and they’ll either hurt you, or …” he leaves off there, taking in a shaky breath. 

“Or what?” Steve says again.

“Or it will kill you.”

The words are spoken so softly, Steve thinks he _must_ have heard them wrong. “What?” he asks, knowing he can’t hide the disbelief in his voice, and not caring. He wants to believe this is a bad dream, one he’ll wake up from soon. He can barely take in Bucky’s next words as the shock starts to take effect.

“Their procedure has killed people. They use the MRI’s to identify patients in the early stages, and they made up this fatal condition they call Echo to explain the deaths. Your government has been actively trying to stop the change from happening in its citizens, instead of letting nature take its course.”

The weirdness level of this conversation is getting out of control, and Steve feels like he’s hot all over, but has the shakes at the same time. “Wait, hold on. What do you mean, _MY_ government? Don’t you mean _OUR_ government? You live here too, you know.”

“Steve, please understand, we _had_ to do it. There are rules we had to follow.”

“We? What rules? To do what?” Steve says coldly, not understanding but dreading the answer. 

“To come here, it takes a lot of planning. I don’t…Nat knows more about that than I do. I just know we weren’t allowed to tell you the truth right away.”

The fear that had been gripping Steve thus far had stayed contained, a tight ball that he was trying to squish down, but now it flares up, threatening to inflate far beyond his ability to control it, because Bucky looks not only scared now, but _guilty_. 

“We…we had to lie. Me and Natasha. We’re not from Sanctuary,” Bucky tells him. “We’re from a different territory. We only came here for _you_.”

“What do you…” Steve stops and blinks. His head is spinning. Everything he thought he knew about Bucky…is a lie? “What do you mean, you came here for me? You didn’t even _know me_ before you came here.”

“I didn’t know you,” Bucky agrees. His hands clutch at his knees, knuckles turning white. “But I knew your _face_.” 

Steve sucks in a sharp breath of air. No…he can’t mean…

“I saw your face in my dreams for _months_ before we finally found you,” Bucky says. “We came for you as soon as we could.”

Bucky had been seeing _his_ face in dreams, just like Steve was seeing Bucky’s? But that was crazy. That was so over-the-top absurd, he wouldn’t have believed it, _if it hadn’t happened to him_. Steve thinks back, back to that first day when they met, when Bucky seemed not to know him, while Steve struggled to control his shock…

“Did you know?” Steve says sharply, and Bucky looks abashed. 

“Did I know you recognized me? Yes,” he admits. “I could see it in your face.”

“And yet you said nothing,” Steve says stiffly. So that’s why Bucky looks nervous. “Why didn’t you tell me then?” Anger starts to rise, along with Steve’s temperature. “You’ve been lying to me…for months. You knew I was having visions of you in dreams, and you knew what it meant, yet you said nothing.” A new thought strikes him. “Did _you_ put that vision in my head?”

Bucky shakes his head. “No. That was initiated by you.” He tips his head in a conciliatory manner when Steve snorts incredulously. “Consciously you’re not there yet, but subconsciously, your abilities are already developing and manifesting. During your REM cycle of sleep you sent your own image to me, so I tried to send you mine back, and your brain was able to receive it.”

“I sent my own image, in my sleep? Bullshit,” Steve barks. “You’re still lying. I just don’t understand why.”

“It’s _true_ ,” Bucky pleads. “We searched the database for your image, trying to place you, but came up empty. It was only when you saw your own doctor for the headaches that we were able to find you and come for you.”

“You keep saying that,” Steve snaps. “That you came here for me. Why?” He stands now, too worked up to sit still any longer. “You know what? It doesn’t matter why.” He slashes at the air with one hand. “You’ve been lying to me since the moment we met, so why would anything that comes out of your mouth now be the truth?” 

He can’t even focus right now on the possibility that he’s becoming telepathic. As outlandish as that seems, it’s not even Steve’s biggest worry. Bucky has been lying to him all along…he’s not from Sanctuary. He knows about Steve’s dreams and (supposedly) what they mean. Is he even a real physician assistant? And what about…what about _them_? Was that part of the lie, too? Has Bucky been faking it this whole time? 

Does Bucky even _care_ about him at all? 

Bucky is standing now, too, a mortified expression on his face. “I’m sorry I had to lie, but I’m telling you the truth now, I swear it.” His palms are up in supplication. “Steve, please…”

“What about us?” Steve whispers.

Bucky’s hands drop to his sides in shock and dismay. “What _about_ us? You can’t think…” His expression is horrified. “All of that was _real_ , you must know that. I never lied about the way I feel about you.”

Shaking his head, Steve backs away from him. “How do I know that? How do I know what’s real anymore? I don’t even _know_ you. You’ve been lying to me this whole time…”

He freezes in place as a new terrible thought hits him. “Did you seduce me just to gain my trust?”

“What? NO!” Bucky practically shouts. “Steve, no! You know I care for you.”

“I don’t know anything anymore,” Steve admits numbly. 

He’s got to get out of there. He needs air…he needs to be alone, to think…whirling around on his heel, he strides to the door, ignoring the pleas he hears behind him.

“Steve, don’t. Steve, please…” 

Those are the last words he hears before he walks out the door and slams it shut behind him.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Steve avoids seeing or even talking about Bucky, Natasha forces him to face some harsh truths about his life and his world. He realizes that nothing is what it seems, nor will it ever be the same again.

Chapter Ten

Steve practically runs out of Bucky’s apartment building, mind whirling and stomach churning. Once he hits the sidewalk he slows to a normal pace, but inside his thoughts race just the same. Bucky LIED. The thought repeats itself over and over like a mantra. Was he lying about everything? Is any of what he just told Steve now even the truth? What if it is? What if _everything_ he just said is true?

Pounding down the sidewalk and heedless of the other pedestrians moving to and fro around him, Steve walks and thinks, head down and hands shoved deep into his pockets. He needs Sam. He needs his best friend to make the world make sense again. As he climbs the steps to the train stop, he pulls his phone out, intending to text him, but stops dead. There’s a message from Bucky already. Testily he shoves the phone back into his pocket, avoiding reading it. 

He plops down into a seat and slouches into it. It’s not true. A lifetime of experience living in Sanctuary tells him it can’t be true. And yet, every fiber of his being vibrates with a need to believe that what he and Bucky had was…is…real, that he wouldn’t have made all that up. What would be the point? He can’t think of a single plausible reason for Bucky to invent such nonsense. 

But that would mean the medical community he’s been a proud part of for years has been…what, experimenting on patients? Killing people? He shakes his head in disgust. No way. Not possible. He can’t accept that, and therein lies his quandary. He shakes his head to himself again and looks out the window of the train as it slows. This is his exit. 

When the train car glides to a stop, he stomps off toward his building. He needs to get home where he can think. Pushing through the front entrance to his apartment, he nods to a neighbor from down the hall, just leaving. The fortyish dentist who always hogs the elliptical machine when they’re at the gym gives him a friendly wave as he passes. 

Boarding the elevator, Steve paces until the door opens and spits him out at his floor. He thinks about what Sam will say as he starts down the hall, and his steps then slow. Sam will believe it. No doubt. He’ll take Bucky’s words and run with them. Steve wanted his best friend to make him comfortable again, to convince him his normal, ordered life is still his normal, ordered life. But that’s not going to happen, so he finds himself re-thinking his plan. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he detects movement in the hall ahead of him. Looking up, he sees Natasha leaning against his door and he almost does an about face. How did she get here so fast? Bucky must have called her. _Don’t talk to her._ She’s seen him though, so he continues down the hall, approaching her warily. When he draws near, she pushes off his door and faces him, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. They eye each other silently, Natasha seemingly waiting for him to speak first. 

“I suppose you’re here to tell me everything Bucky said is true.” Standing with feet spread wide and arms crossed over his chest, he addresses her, a touch sullenly. 

Shaking her head, Natasha makes her reply. “You already know it’s true. I’m here to tell you everything he _didn’t._ ” 

Not the response he was expecting, and he is initially so taken aback, he doesn’t know what to say.

Natasha fills the silence, and her voice has a sympathetic edge. “Steve, look, I understand this is a lot to take in, and how difficult it is to accept all of it, really I do.”

He snorts then, loudly and obnoxiously. _You’ve got no idea, honey._

She’s not offended. “Really, I do,” she insists, and takes a step toward him. “But I need you to let go of the hurt you’re feeling and see this with different eyes.” She takes another step. “So come on then,” she says encouragingly, and holds out a hand to gesture back down the hall the way he came. 

Steve doesn’t move. “Are we going somewhere?” 

The sullen tone remains. Let go of the hurt…easy for her to say. What is she even doing here? Is she even Bucky’s real sister?

“Is Bucky really your brother?” he blurts out, eyes narrowing suspiciously. 

Nodding, she purses her full lips. “Yes, Bucky is my brother. Now come on, I’ll explain on the way.”

She takes his hand and he doesn’t pull it away, but still doesn’t budge. 

“To where?” he asks reluctantly.

“I have something I need to show you.” She tugs at his hand. “Please?” Her eyebrows lift expectantly. 

With a sigh, Steve allows himself to be pulled down the hallway and back to the elevator. Once they are both ensconced inside it and start descending, she eyes him and states, “Go ahead and ask.”

Steve bites at his lower lip. “Can you read my mind?” 

She shakes her head definitively. “Telepaths can share thoughts non-verbally, but they still have to think them to each other purposefully, otherwise the mind stays closed and the thoughts private.”

Considering this for a moment, he then asks, “Then how could I have thought my image to him? I wasn’t trying to. I’m not trying to. And why _him_? How did I find _him_?” 

Bucky goes unnamed in that sentence, not that there would be any mistaking who Steve is referring to. He can’t believe he’s even asking this shit. None of it is true anyway, right? 

Natasha stands head down, examining feet that are encased in gym shoes. Apparently she came right from her work-out. She then looks up at him. “I think Bucky needs to be the one to explain that part of it to you.” 

Steve makes a face. “Thought you said you were here to tell me everything he didn’t.”

That gets him a dry laugh. “Okay, almost everything,” she qualifies. 

The elevator door slides open and she leads him outside, gesturing toward the train stop. “This way. We’ll talk more on the train.”

“Where are we going?” he asks skeptically, following her all the same. “I don’t want to see him right now,” he adds sharply, again leaving Bucky’s name out of it. 

“We’re not going to see him,” Natasha promises. “And you’ll see when we get there.”

They are silent the rest of the walk to the train stop, as the street is crowded and she apparently doesn’t want their conversation to be overheard. _Yeah, because it’s fucking crazy talk,_ he thinks as he climbs onto the train anyway. The part of him that wants desperately to believe Bucky cares about him drives him forward, even more than any need to have his headaches explained. 

But now that he’s thinking about it…they go all the way to the back of the train car and take an unoccupied section. Once they are seated, he leans close.

“Why am I having these headaches?”

“They happen before you go through the change. Your brain is basically re-wiring itself. It hurts, yes. But it is _not_ fatal.” Her eyes penetrate him unflinchingly. “But if you keep that appointment tomorrow you will be in serious danger. Bucky is in full panic mode, worrying about you.”

Leaning back in his chair weakly and closing his eyes, Steve shakes his head. Not ready to think about Bucky yet. 

“Okay, okay,” his companion relents, touching his arm to reassure him. “Let’s start at the beginning.”

Steve’s eyes pop open again. “I don’t even know where that is,” he admits, and she gives him a gentle smile. 

“Let’s start at our beginning. Bucky and I have spent most of our lives in the mountain area out west. The change has been affecting people there for many years. We are an accepted part of our society now.”

“Out west,” Steve repeats. That’s far away, hundreds of miles. Other than that, he doesn’t actually know much about the other territories and their current state. 

“Bucky told me you like history. We grew up close to the city that used to be called Denver. Now the entire territory is named Magellan,” she provides helpfully.

“But that’s full of disease!” he says in alarm, and her head shakes. 

“No. It’s not. You have to understand, your government only tells you what they want you to know. There hasn’t been a pandemic in any of the other territories for more than thirty years.”

“Thirty years!” Steve’s whisper gets a little loud, and Natasha puts her finger to her lips to quiet him. 

“Yes, thirty. The country is quite safe. Only Sanctuary continues to maintain its borders and seal itself off from everyone else. Do you know that elsewhere in the country, people can move freely from territory to territory? It’s only in Sanctuary that travel is restricted so heavily. It’s how they keep control over everyone.”

Steve’s mouth falls open. “What? Then how did _you_ get here?”

“We snuck in.” She leans in closer and looks around to make sure they are still isolated from the other passengers. “Our government has some well-placed…spies, for lack of a better word. When we need to get in, we are provided with false travel documents, false backgrounds.” 

Leaning forward and putting his face in his hands, Steve tries to wrap his head around all of this. Spies…secret documents…God, Sam would be in seventh heaven hearing all of this. 

“So, you and Bucky do this a lot then?” He turns his head to look sideways at her and sees her red ponytail moving as she shakes her head.

“Me, yes. Bucky, no. I have another partner I usually work with on these assignments. Bucky begged to come with me this time.”

Steve puts his face back in his hands and she leans down to whisper directly into his ear. “And the only way he got permission to come was to agree to follow strict protocol. That means he wasn’t allowed to tell you anything when you first met.”

Her words are quietly spoken but he can feel the emotion behind them, and he looks back up at her as her eyes flash with intensity.

“We argued about it the entire way here. He wanted to tell you immediately.”

“Then why wasn’t he allowed to?” he asks crossly, putting air quotes around the “allowed to” part of his sentence. 

She grimaces. “Be real, Steve. What would you have thought if a person you just met told you you’re becoming telepathic, and your government’s been lying to you your whole life? Hmmm?” Her eyebrows arch to the point of disappearing into her hairline. 

Steve stops and pauses, really considering that for the first time. Of course he wouldn’t believe it. He’s having a hard time believing it _now._. “I’d think you were crazy, or lying,” he admits. 

“You’d think we were lying,” she agrees. “And you might even report us to the authorities.” She sits back in her seat then, letting that sink in. 

_Oh._ “That’s happened already, hasn’t it,” he questions, and she nods. 

“We lost two good people who were found out and captured in Sanctuary while on an assignment. They were killed,” she adds quietly. “This isn’t a game. Protocols are in place to protect both you and us.”

Steve swallows and realizes his heart is beating so fast he can feel it reverberating in his chest. “I’m not going to turn you in,” he breathes, and she nods at him. 

“I know.” She looks out the window as the train slows. “First stop,” she announces, and Steve glances out the window as well. It’s a relay point for switching lines and as they disembark, she points to another track. “We want that one.”

“The chicken run?” he declares in surprise, as their former train departs and another appears, gliding in from another direction and track. The silver metal shines in the sun as it slows and pulls to a stop. The doors pop open and people spill out, probably heading home after their busy day. Not Steve and Natasha. They enter and walk all the way to the back a second time, for privacy. 

“Natasha,” Steve starts as they settle into their seats, “You said Bucky doesn’t normally do this. Then what does he do?”

“He didn’t even tell you that?” she scoffs, and he has the decency to look sheepish. 

“I didn’t really give him a chance to.”

“Oh.” Her eyes flick downward and she tucks her hair back. “Well then. Bucky is a neurologist,” she explains simply. “That’s how he knows so much about treating the headaches. He developed those methods for me when I started having them. And then when he did, we used them on him, too.”

Steve’s mouth has fallen open. Again. Bucky is a neurologist? A telepathic neurologist. From Magellan. He sneaks a glance around them and whispers, “So you can talk to him right now?” He lowers his voice even more. “Or do you have to be close to each other, like, in the same room?”

“Range doesn’t matter, once you learn to recognize a person’s mind.”

“Huh?” He wrinkles his nose and she smiles at him.

“Well, you wouldn’t want to deliver your thoughts to every telepath around you, would you? You’ll learn to distinguish one person from another by their mental presence.”

Steve stares. _He’ll_ learn to do that?

“Do you want me to ask him something?” she asks gently, and he takes in a sharp breath. 

“Are you talking to him right now? Does he know we’re together?” His anxiety level goes up a notch. 

“Yes,” she answers honestly, but doesn’t elaborate beyond that.

“Ask him…” Steve stops to think. He wants to ask something Nat couldn’t possibly know the answer to, and see what happens. Will she then turn out to be a fraud?

“Ask him where we were when we saw those dogs last week.”

They’d been out on a walk when a woman had passed them in the opposite direction with five dogs on leashes, every one barking happily. He doubts that would be something Bucky told his sister about before this moment. Natasha is quiet for a minute, face expressionless until she smiles slightly. 

“He says you were by the water fountain in the park, and there were five yappy Pomeranians all going for a walk.” She pauses, then continues. “You were wearing a blue shirt.” She smiles again, a little apologetically. “And he says you kissed him and said you hoped he likes big dogs more than small dogs.”

Steve feels his cheeks pink up. He did say that. He kissed Bucky, too. All of that was true, and it really hits him then that maybe, just maybe this is all for real. He then has some trouble breathing normally for a while, but Natasha stays patient and silent next to him, reading the varying expressions of disbelief that meld into reluctant acceptance one by one as they cross his face. 

“Most people ask for proof right away,” she admits quietly. “Took you a while to get there.” 

Steve swallows hard. “Still not sure I’m there,” he confesses.

She chews her lip thoughtfully. “I knew you’d be a hard case. You’re too pragmatic. Well, that’s why we’re here,” she replies, and Steve realizes the train is slowing. 

“Here where?” His head swivels toward the window. 

They look to be in a much more residential area, and more rural. The train stops and Steve sees manicured lawn falling back from the street and a long, low white picket fence, with plenty of trees and carefully sculpted bushes. What the? Where are they? Natasha leads the way, stepping out into the fresh air and evening sun with a deeply inhaled breath. 

“The grounds here are actually quite lovely,” she concedes, leading him down the wooden stairs to ground level. 

They are the only two people to get off at this stop. Steve’s brow wrinkles. “Grounds?”

She nods and falls into step on the wide sidewalk next to him. “Part two of convincing you we are telling the truth.”

Turning the corner, Steve sees a large building set back on a green lawn. The sign in front of the white brick, single story, sprawling structure reads “Sunset Convalescent Home.”

Brow wrinkling even more and extending to his nose, he glances at his companion. “Convalescent Home? I don’t know anyone here.”

“Yes you do,” she states, looking grim. 

They follow a brick walkway up toward the building, some hundred yards off. 

“Bucky told you your government is actively preventing the change from happening in the population here. They’re doing it by performing brain surgery on patients who show signs of the change starting. Patients who _don’t need brain surgery_. They’re lobotomizing people, Steve. It’s barbaric.”

This is where doubt rears its head again. 

“No.” The word is out of his mouth before he even realizes he said it. 

Natasha’s head turns sharply. “You want to know what people in the other territories call Sanctuary? The ones who know about what is going on here? The Sanitarium,” she tells him disparagingly.

“That’s a lie,” Steve spits out, but only half of his brain believes it. The other half has to consider what she tells him as possible truth. 

Natasha appears nonplussed at his reaction. Reaching the front door of the building, she gives him a meaningful look that clearly says they need to watch what they say once inside. Pulling open the door, they enter and she immediately strides up to the front desk, where a receptionist sits. 

“Hello, Ms. Barnes, are you here to see Mr. Ragland again?” she says congenially, and Natasha nods.

“Last minute details. This is my associate, Dr. Rogers. We’ll only be a minute or two.”

“Alright then,” she remarks, waving them on. “He’s down in the lounge.”

Steve stays silent while Natasha nods and immediately turns to head down the hallway to the left, obviously familiar with the place already. He follows at Natasha’s heels, looking around curiously and wondering who the hell Mr. Ragland is. They pass what appears to be a large dining hall with many people seated inside at tables, most in the thirty to fifty range with a rare few appearing to be in their twenties. 

Some sit motionless, staring out the large bank of windows to a field behind the building. Others are still eating their evening meal, as he spots silverware and cups being brought to mouths. Then they are past that room and are traveling down another hallway. Natasha stops at the entrance to a smaller room with seating and a large television mounted on a wall. There are several residents here as well and she scans faces till she finds the one she’s looking for. 

Motioning to Steve, she beckons him forward. “Come on.”

Stepping in, she circles a sofa and squats down next to an armchair where a fortyish year old man with a receding hairline sits, wearing a pleasant smile on his face. His very familiar face.

“Hello Phil,” she greets him congenially. “I brought someone to meet you.”

“Hello Natasha.” The man looks up at Steve, still standing slightly behind his companion. “Hello,” he says benignly. “I’m Phil.”

Steve stares in disbelief. It’s Phil Coulson, the police officer from their building, not a mysterious Mr. Ragland. The same Phil who’d been diagnosed with Echo, who’d gone in to have surgery…and who’d never come back.

Steve looks down at Natasha and back to Phil. “Phil, it’s me, Steve Rogers.” He points to his own chest. “We lived in the same building before you…before this. Do you remember?”

The balding head shifts to one side a bit, and Steve sees it. The long, thin scar that weaves along one side of his head, now white and faded but no less terrifying. 

“I live here,” Phil says calmly, no sign at all of any recognition of Steve. 

“Yes, but…” Steve goes around Natasha and kneels in front of the armchair. “You used to be a police officer. You lived in the city, do you remember that?”

Phil’s head shakes in mild confusion and he looks back at Natasha. “Do you know what kind of dessert we’re having today?”

She shakes her head sadly. “No, I don’t, I’m sorry.”

Looking back at Steve, Phil smiles. “I hope it’s chocolate cake. That’s my favorite.”

“Phil,” Steve says a little more heatedly. “You went in for treatment at the hospital, to cure your headaches. What happened to you?”

“Treatment?” The word comes out blandly, with no memory associated with it. Phil looks around the room. “I live here now. It’s nice.”

 _Lobotomy_. The word haunts him. _They’ll hurt you._ That’s what Bucky had said. But this could still be the result of surgery after brain cancer, couldn’t it? It doesn’t necessarily mean Echo is a lie. Only…their medical community _never_ talks about lobotomizing patients, or failed surgeries. Echo is fatal. And Phil’s name has been changed, why? To hush it all up? Was his family told he had _died_? 

Steve stares at Phil silently. This can’t be happening. He was a smart, engaging guy, leading a productive life…what the hell did they _do_ to him?

“Phil…” he starts, and Natasha reaches over and silently lays her hand on his arm.

“I…I like chocolate cake, too,” he finishes, and gives the shell of a man sitting before him a fleeting smile. 

Phil nods sagely. “It’s good.” Then he looks at Steve and asks, “Do you live here, too?”

It’s a good thing Steve was already on his knees, because suddenly they feel weak. “No,” he answers, throat suddenly parched. “No, I don’t.”

But he could be living here. This could be him, if Natasha and Bucky are right, and he goes in for his appointment tomorrow. He could end up like this, with no memory of his former life, no purpose, no future. And no one would find him. He’d almost rather be dead than live like this. Pushing away, he gets back to his feet like there’s a dangerous animal in front of him. Natasha stands as well and pats Phil on the knee. 

“You have a lovely evening, Phil. We’ll be going now.”

He waves at them both. “Okay.” Then his hands fold in his lap; a far away, lost look returns to his eyes, and it’s all Steve can do not to run screaming from the room. 

Is this place full of people just like him? People with botched surgeries that rob them of their personality, of their memories, of their ability to live rich and full lives? How many are gone completely, cremated and their ashes spread to the heavens, with no one knowing the real reason why? 

He turns and speeds from the room, bile rising in his throat, bitter and hot. He doesn’t stop, not till he’s down the hall to the nearest exit sign, not till he’s outside in the cooling air again, away from this nightmare of a place. Natasha is right behind him, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder as he stands there, silently trembling. 

“I want to go home,” he demands in a dazed voice.

She moves next to him and assents. “All right. I’ve shown you what I wanted to.”

They leave the same way they came, hopping the next train, now sparsely populated for the return trip to the city. 

“What is that place?” he asks in a low voice, once they are under way. 

“You know what it is,” she claims, not unkindly. “These are the few survivors of their so-called treatment. Their names have been altered, their families told they were dead and cremated. Even the people who work here don’t know the truth. I had to lie and pose as a lawyer to get in and see him, because there are never any visitors. These patients live out the rest of their lives as docile as sheep. They don’t remember. They can’t sound the alarm. They can’t do _anything_.” 

Fear starts to grip Steve hard now, as more and more evidence points toward Bucky and Natasha’s version of the truth. Natasha didn’t just find Phil today. He and the receptionist _recognized_ her, which means she’s been here before, probably more than once. And that means she was planning all along to bring him here. 

He’s torn inside…who does he believe? The argument that patients were left this way after brain surgery to remove cancer would hold a lot more water if Natasha hadn’t just pretty convincingly demonstrated her ability to communicate with Bucky when he wasn’t present. Hidden microphone? Her ears are uncovered and bare, but his brain grasps wildly at the possibility anyway. Why the fuck would they go to all of that trouble? Again he is left with facing the possibility that the pair tell no lies, and he’s the one lying to himself.

So where does that leave him? Even if he cancels his appointment tomorrow, what will happen to him after that? What will happen if he does undergo this change Natasha speaks of? Will he live in fear of discovery for the rest of his life?

“What did you really come here for?” he watches Natasha’s face. Why are they here? 

“We came to take you away from here, to take you somewhere safe, where you won’t be harmed because of what you are.”

“And where is that?” he asks tiredly.

“Anywhere outside of Sanctuary,” is her blunt answer. “We’d like to take you back to Magellan with us, but you’re not a prisoner. You can go where you like.”

“Go where I like.” Steve’s brain must have reached its quota of new, stupefying information today, because he’s having trouble processing. “My whole life is here. I have nowhere else to go.” 

Her eyes sadden. “Steve, I’m sorry. You cannot stay here. You risk your life if you do.” She takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. “There’s a whole wide world out there, though, and I promise you, it’s full of fantastic places and opportunities. This is a chance at a new life, not a death sentence.”

A new life. He just wants his old one back. 

“How many people have you taken out of Sanctuary?” he asks dully, barely registering her hand on his. 

“Our organization? Dozens,” she tells him.

“How do you do it?” 

Her hand slips away. “Forged travel documents, most of the time. You, me and Bucky. We leave together. We keep you safe.” 

That’s putting a lot of trust in people he doesn’t even know. What happens if they are stopped at the border and found out? He doesn’t especially want to contemplate that scenario.

“How soon?” 

“As soon as you are ready. It takes several days to get the documents ready when we ask for them. As you can imagine, travel outside of Sanctuary has a lot of red tape associated with it. But it needs to be soon.” 

He eyes her curiously. “And why is that?”

She rubs her forehead. “Because judging from the frequency of your headaches, we don’t have a lot of time left before you enter the final stage, and we don’t want to be traveling when that hits.” She taps her chin and frowns a bit. “Some people can be…incapacitated for short bursts.”

Bolting upright in his seat, Steve frowns too. “Incapacitated! What does that mean?”

“Sometimes people briefly pass out from the pain,” Natasha says passively. “It doesn’t always happen, but it would make travel inconvenient.”

Steve’s eyes cross. _Inconvenient._ “Do you always cut it this close with people?”

“Oh, hell no,” she exclaims. “Understand, Steve, your case is unusual. Most people go in to their doctors because of the headache pain a lot earlier than you did, and we can find them a lot quicker.” Her eyes drift to the ceiling of the train car. “You are a stubborn piece of work.”

Sam has maybe mentioned that a million times, and he smiles in spite of himself. “I’ve been told it’s an endearing quality.” 

“Ha ha,” she says dryly. “Usually we can tell people earlier on in the process and they’re still receptive to our news. We can get them out well before this stage. With you, we’ve had to accelerate that timetable. But I still want to move you before that last stage presents.”

Steve stares out the window at the scenery flying by. _Move you._ Leave his life here. His job, his friends…Tony, Clint, Sam. Just leave them all behind? Once he leaves Sanctuary, contact would be impossible. He’d never see or talk to them again. Is that what he needs to do? If he was like Sam, he would already be packing. Sam would relish the adventure, while Steve…struggles. 

_Can_ he leave everyone and everything behind? 

\--

Natasha accompanies him all the way back to his door, not content to leave him at his train stop. “So, can you tell me what you’re thinking? Have you come to any decisions?”

Steve stops in front of his door and braces his hands on it. “I don’t know, Nat. I need to think about all this.”

“I understand.” She leaves him with one final instruction. “Please, talk to Bucky. He wants to see you, but he won’t press you till you’re ready.” She actually stands on her tiptoes to reach up and give him a hug then. “It will all work out, you’ll see. Trust me.” 

Then she is gone and Steve leans more heavily into his door. This day certainly didn’t end the way he wanted it to. He rolls himself off his door and walks over to Sam’s, knocking wearily. As soon as he answers the summons, Sam realizes something is wrong. 

“Steve…what is it?” he asks, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him inside.

Steve tells him everything and Sam lets him talk uninterrupted, till he gets to the part about Bucky and Natasha being telepathic. Then his fist pumps in the air and he squeals, “I knew it!”

Steve shoots daggers at him with his eyes and the smirk on Sam’s face immediately vanishes. He coughs apologetically. 

“Sorry, dude. Go on.”

Finishing with the part about leaving Sanctuary for good, Steve then falls silent, looking at Sam forlornly. “What do you think I should do?”

“Whaddya mean, what do I think you should do?” Sam stares at him in disbelief. “They’re telling you the truth. You have to go.”

As Steve starts to protest, Sam cuts him off. “No, forget all the conspiracy theory stuff I love for a minute. You _know_ them. Bucky may have hurt you by lying at first, but come on.” He tilts his head to one side. “They’re telling the truth now, I can feel it.”

“That still doesn’t mean I have to just up and vanish…” Steve starts, and Sam interrupts again. 

“No, Steve, you have to go. Even if you have to leave us all behind, you can’t stay here. It won’t be safe for you.”

“But…”

“No!” Sam jumps to his feet. “I won’t let you risk your life. I’ll drag you out of here myself and throw you right over that wall, if that’s what it takes.” His arms cross over his chest defiantly. 

Steve meets his eyes, challenging him to argue. Sam. Unflinchingly loyal to the end. Sam, who could have gloated over the fact that he’s been right for years, but hasn’t (or not much, anyway). Sam, who’s been there for him for his entire adult life, the one true constant in his existence, the best friend he’s ever had. 

What would he do without a friend like Sam Wilson? He’s starting to realize that he’s going to find out, and it tears a giant hole in his chest. Tears spring to his eyes, unbidden. 

Sam stands there, glaring at him, waiting for him to see sense. “So what are you going to do?”

Steve manages to get his next words out without crying, but only barely. “I’ll miss you, that’s what.”


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve wakes the next morning knowing what he's got to do...mostly. But when another headache brings him to his knees, his plans go awry. In the worst way possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fiddling with chapters as one was getting to be monster length, so I added on. Plus there may be an epilogue. Sorry for messing with you. But not really. :-)

Chapter Eleven

Steve hardly sleeps that night. Let’s just say he’s got a lot on his fucking mind, alright? He’s worried about Bucky. He’s worried about himself. He’s worried about what he should do and where he should go, and everything else that’s about to happen, his mind manufacturing a billion different trajectories his life could follow. Telepathic ability. For real? Not something he ever expected he would be dealing with in his lifetime, but there you go. He thought sleeping on it would help make things clearer in the morning, but apparently that only works if you actually do _sleep_ , rather than just toss and turn. 

Instead, when he drags his tired ass out of bed in the morning after finally falling asleep somewhere around four or five, he discovers he didn’t even set his alarm and he’s missed the train he would normally take with the guys. Sam didn’t come down to wake him because he knew Steve was scheduled off that morning. 

Well, one thing he’s certain of is that he’s not keeping his neurology appointment. That’s going off the books first thing, so he calls their office and leaves a voicemail to cancel for today. Second thing he does is text Bucky.

_Bucky, I cancelled my appointment. Can I come in to work and talk to you this morning?_

It only takes a minute for a reply to come back. _Of course you can. I want to see you. And Steve? Thank you for trusting me._

That’s pretty much the crux of the whole deal, and something in his chest stirs and warms. As much as his brain and the entire body of knowledge contained therein tried to fight it, he believes Bucky and Natasha. That’s a hard thing to come to grips with for someone like Steve, but also unavoidable. It was going to happen—it was just a matter of how long it took Steve to get there. And the sole reason for him getting there at all is Bucky. 

Hi nerves jangle a bit when he thinks about what to say to him when he gets to the office. He supposes he didn’t treat him very nicely last night, walking out the way he did, but given the extenuating circumstances he doesn’t think Bucky is going to hold a grudge. That’s not what he’s nervous about—he’s nervous about the future of their relationship, because when he thinks about the two of them NOT being together, his stomach clenches and his heart pounds.

That’s because Bucky has become someone very special to Steve. Not just the hot guy he was crushing on, not just the comforting face in his dreams. He wants to be with Bucky for the long haul, but does Bucky want him in that way, too? Or will his interest in Steve wane? He needs to see Bucky’s eyes and ask him again just what his feelings are. 

The craziest thing is, out of everything Steve could be worrying about, like being discovered and killed or lobotomized, the thing he’s stressing about the most is whether Bucky’s feelings for him are true, or part of the lie. He shakes his head to himself and picks up his phone again. Two more texts to send, this time tell both Clint and Tony he has some important things to discuss with them, so he’ll be coming in to the office earlier than planned today. 

Clint texts back in typical Clint fashion that Steve is a fucking idiot, and of course Bucky and Sam already filled him in on everything on the train ride in, so why doesn’t he just get his ass in there to pack up his stuff and get out of town? A smile involuntarily crosses Steve’s face. Clint. He’s going to miss Clint, too, if he leaves, that is. Or _when_ he leaves, according to Sam. 

As soon as he’s showered and dressed, Steve walks down to the train stop and boards the next train solo, plopping down tiredly in a seat toward the front. He reaches for his phone in his pocket to check for any other messages, but before he can do so a wave of pain smashes into the side of his head and his vision blurs.

Actually a wave isn’t a good descriptor, because that would imply a crest and then a decrease in intensity, but this pain doesn’t stop, it just keeps coming, hammering at him mercilessly. Like blows from a jackhammer, the painful shocks are high in both intensity and speed. He grunts in spite of his best efforts not to, and puts his hands to his temples. 

_Oh shit. Not now._ Fumbling to reach his phone, he gets it out of his pocket, but when he looks at it his vision is so blurred he can no longer see anything on the screen clearly. Fingers trembling, he guesses at where the call button is and stabs at it desperately. Bucky was the last person he talked to, if he can just find that screen…

The edges of his vision start to go black and it feels like someone is driving an ice pick into the side of his head. Steve falls to his knees on the floor of the train as the blackness spreads, and the world closes in on him. The last thing he hears is someone screaming…and he realizes it’s _him_.

\--

Consciousness returns slowly, in painful stages filled with voices but blackness, hands prodding and poking him, strange pounding noises, and finally blurry images that little by little congeal into solid vision. His head weighs a thousand pounds. He is flat on his back, staring up at a sterile white ceiling with harsh fluorescent lights shining down. _Not the train._ He was on the train, but this is definitely not that. Where is he? 

Looking around, he finds he is in a tiny treatment room, most likely in the emergency department. _The Center._ He’s at The Center. Fear grips him hard and doesn’t let go. Does someone know already? Is it too late to hide what’s going on inside his head? He needs to get out of there immediately. A half-gasp, half-moan escapes him when he attempts to sit up, because he finds he can’t move, and it’s not because his head is hurting and he feels dizzy (but that’s going on, too). 

It’s because he’s got _restraints_ on. Looking down, he stares at the cuffs around his wrists and chest in disbelief. Why would they have done that? His heart thumps in his chest. He’s trapped, and Bucky doesn’t know where he is, and now Steve is totally fucked and starting to panic for real. He takes a few breaths bordering on hyperventilation before he calms himself back down and pushes the call button next to his hand. _Just get out of here._ First order of business. They can’t keep him here against his will. 

A young woman in the turquoise scrubs emergency personnel wear strides into the room. “Oh, Dr. Rogers, I’m so sorry. You were restrained earlier because you were thrashing around so much,” she says soothingly, and pushes a button on the bed rail to elevate his head to a more comfortable level. 

“Thrashing…” Steve swallows thickly. He doesn’t remember any thrashing. “How long was I unconscious?”

“Long enough for the MRI and CT scans to be done. I’m not sure exactly. The doctor here has put in a call to neurology, though. You are getting the best care possible,” she finishes, meaning to be reassuring, but Steve is petrified. 

Neurology? MRI and CT? That means they’ll have seen his brain scan. _Fuck._ Who will come from the neurology department? He hopes it’s anyone but Pierce, because if there’s someone who would lie to people and cover up experimental surgery, Steve is convinced it’s that asshole. The man already thinks he’s invincible and untouchable; that kind of reprehensible behavior seemed right up his alley. 

“Really, I don’t need a neuro consult. I’d rather see my own doctor,” he hedges, flexing his wrists. The bonds are tight. “Can we please remove these now?”

Though his groggy brain protests, internally he’s already mapping out the emergency department and thinking of where the nearest exit is, in case Neurology is on the way already. Treatment rooms are laid out in a long line, with a nurse’s station and the elevator banks at one end. You have to get past the nurse’s station to reach the exit. 

Probably can’t just sneak past the nurse’s station, as busy as the department was. The area was usually bustling with activity. Someone would see him, but would they stop him? Depended on who that person was. He could sign himself out against medical advice, though it would raise suspicion, but frankly, his scan is already going to raise enough suspicion as it is. 

“…Really think you should wait for the neuro doc,” the nurse is saying, but Steve is only half listening.

He’s got to formulate a plan, not just for getting out of this building, but what to do afterward. Looking down at himself again, he is dismayed to see he’s in a hospital gown, damnit. They probably stripped him to take the MRI. Where are his personal effects? His clothes and cell phone? 

As soon as the room stops turning in slow circles and he can look around, he spies a small, skinny locker in the corner. Most likely, his personal stuff got put into a bag and left in there. If he can just get the nurse to take the restraints off and leave the room, he could dress quickly and take a chance on getting past the populated nurse station. From there he could easily get to his office and find Bucky. Bucky will know what to do. 

“…So I need to get the doctor to come in and approve removal of the restraints,” the nurse is telling him. “I’ll go and find him for you…”

“That won’t be necessary.”

It’s a new voice, coming from the hallway but getting louder as the man steps into the room and smiles at them, efficiently and without any warmth.

_Pierce._

Steve’s blood runs cold, but he tries to hide any discomfort at seeing Pierce here. The doctor is looking at him, inspecting him as he would a lab rat. God, does he _know_ how disconcerting that is? Steve tries to breathe deeply through his nose to calm himself. He still figures he has a shot at getting loose if he plays dumb. Pierce _can’t_ know he has any inkling of the truth. 

“Oh, Dr…Dr. Pierce,” the nurse stammers and backs away from Steve’s bedside. “I didn’t realize it would be you answering the neurology consult.” 

“Well, I happened to be in the department when it came in and we got a look at Dr. Rogers’ scans, here,” Pierce explains in his schmoozy voice, looking from Steve to the nurse and back. He’s oozing an air of friendliness and concern, which makes Steve’s skin crawl. “After finding out he cancelled a neurology appointment for today, I wanted to come down myself. We need to have a very frank discussion about that brain scan.” He looks pointedly back at the nurse, a clear sign of dismissal.

She backs from the room obediently. “Yes, doctor.”

Steve lifts his hands before Pierce can say another word. “Can these be removed, please?”

“Yes, yes,” Pierce assures him. “We’ll take care of that in just a minute. I have something very serious to tell you, and it’s probably better you hear it lying down.”

He pulls up the rolling stool from the end of the bed and sits down on it. Steve stays silent, trying to pretend to be a clueless patient, but it’s making him paranoid that Pierce wouldn’t just remove his restraints right off the bat. The pressure from those cuffs weighs on him, more than just in a physical way. They whisper incessantly to him, of confinement, of imprisonment, of danger. 

Pierce clucks his tongue. “Now then, I know this is going to come as a very great shock, but I promise you, we have the very best treatment options available to us here, so I don’t want you to panic.”

 _Way to scare your patients half to death._ Steve wonders if Pierce does this on purpose, or if his bedside manner just naturally sucks. 

“Panic about what?” he asks, playing along.

Pierce runs a hand through his short hair, red shot through with gray. “I don’t know how you managed the pain all this time on your own, but I wish you had come in to see us sooner.” He scoots his stool closer, making a metallic scraping sound on the tile floor that sounds loud and menacing in some way. He’s close to Steve now, too close, and Steve has to physically remind himself not to shrink away when Pierce speaks again. “You have a very large, very advanced brain tumor, Dr. Rogers. The only course of treatment open to us at this point is immediate surgery to remove it.”

Steve is silent and horrorstruck. _Bucky was right_. He knew that’s what Pierce would say, and Steve then realizes that the words _brain tumor_ don’t terrify him now, because he doesn’t believe Pierce. He believes _Bucky_. What terrifies him is the fate looming in front of him. 

“I…what? A brain tumor, oh my God,” he says to Pierce, because he’s got to say something, and he figures his best play here is to be in shock, but pretend to cooperate. He’s just a normal patient here. _A brain tumor, you say? Wow, that’s a lot to process. I think I need to go home and get my affairs in order before we consider any surgery._ That’s his only ticket out of here. Out loud he disputes Pierce’s words. “There must be other treatment options we can consider before resorting to something so drastic…”

“I suppose orthopedists don’t ever have to deliver news this heart-breaking,” Pierce breaks in to intone sadly, shaking his head. “As I said, surgery is the only treatment. I promise you, we will do everything in our power to ensure the best possible outcome for you.” He stands and rests his hands on Steve’s bedrail. “I understand you have no immediate family nearby.”

Steve stares. How does he…? Of course he would know that, they would try and find that out first. How many people they’ll have to deceive. “No, but I do have a practice to consider,” he stalls. 

“Which I’m sure can be run quite efficiently by your partner while you are recovering,” Pierce finishes smoothly. What a fucking bastard. “Now then, we can transport you directly to neurology for the procedure. We use our own surgical suites, of course, and if there’s someone we can call for you…”

“No.”

Pierce stops mid-stream in his discourse and stares, mouth open. Apparently he’s not used to denials. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

Steve’s resolve hardens. “I said, no. You can’t just expect me to undergo a dangerous procedure like this in the blink of an eye. I need time to prepare.”

Pierce’s mouth forms a thin line, lips pressed together. “I don’t think you understand the direness of your condition, Dr. Rogers. This is an _emergent_ situation that needs to be addressed as soon as possible.”

“And as soon as possible is as soon as _I_ say it’s possible,” Steve says firmly. If playing dumb isn’t going to cut it, then he’ll play hardball. He holds up his hands as far as his bonds will allow. “I will consider your proposal. Now if you will not remove these restraints, we can have the ER doc approve it instead.”

But here, Steve makes a mistake, not fully realizing just how deep into this Pierce is, and how determined he will be to wrest control over the situation away from Steve. For a split second Pierce’s face twists into something unnatural and calculating, before he schools it into the condescending, superior gloat Steve has seen many times before. 

“I also don’t think you realize who has the power here, and who doesn’t.” The words are spoken quietly, but the threat in them permeates the very atmosphere between them, turning the air heavy and foul. Does Pierce know Steve’s not buying it? How could he? At any rate, he obviously doesn’t _care_ one way or the other. He’s already got him right where he wants him. 

Steve lowers his hands, and his breathing quickens. The hardness in Pierce’s eyes is unmistakable, and he _knows_ then that Pierce has been lying to everyone. And that he has no intention of letting Steve walk out of here. His throat constricts and his pulse races. He’s quickly running out of options, and as he tries to sneak a hand over to push the call button on the bed rail, a hand clamps down on his wrist, stopping him. 

“Oh no, we can’t have that,” Pierce snarls, then barks, “Rumlow!” 

Another man enters the room, dark-haired and swarthy, wearing the navy blue scrubs of the neurology department. He must have come with Pierce, and was just waiting in the hall until needed.

Steve opens his mouth to yell for help, for the nurse, for _anything_ , and another hand is clamped down over his mouth before he produces any sound. His eyes widen in alarm as he looks up at his captors. 

Pierce stares down at Steve but speaks to Rumlow. “Just enough happy juice to make him compliant, please. We don’t want him fully sedated just yet,” he says calmly to his companion, pressing one hand down over Steve’s mouth as he tries to turn his head side to side and dislodge it. Steve’s head is pressed down through the pillow right to the mattress with the force of it. The other hand stays on his wrist, and his leverage far outweighs Steve’s. 

The man called Rumlow appears over him, smiling nastily as he pulls out a syringe. Steve’s arm is pinned down against the bed, a perfect target.

“And be sure to make a note in the patient’s chart that he verbally consented to immediate surgery, but then en route became unresponsive and could not formally sign consent.” Pierce shakes his head at Steve and sneers, a cold expression that scares the daylights out of him. “But don’t worry, _doctor_ , tomorrow none of this will matter anymore.” 

Panic fills Steve and he breaks out in a cold sweat. It’s not because he can’t breathe; his nose is uncovered so he can take shallow breaths. It’s pure terror making him panic, terror as the reality of the situation sinks in. Pierce is going to operate on him _today_ , whether he consents or not, without having any true understanding of what he’s dealing with. He’s going to perform _brain surgery_ , a frightening enough prospect under ordinary circumstances. These circumstances are anything but ordinary; Pierce only has the intent to damage, not to help or heal. And Steve will end up either dead, or as a broken amnesiac.

Straining against both the bonds and the men holding him, Steve tries to roll from side to side, but with the tight, leather chest buckle in place, he really can’t make any headway. But the hand covering his mouth, that’s a different story. He finds a finger and bites down on it, hard. 

Just after his teeth connect, two things happen. A cold sensation seeps into his arm just at the crook of his elbow, where his IV site is, and Pierce pulls his hand away and curses under his breath. Before Steve can get his throat to open up enough to yell, the hand clamps down on it again.

Then it’s just a matter of time, and time is against Steve. He is held down as the drug takes surprisingly quick effect. It steals over him insidiously, a sense of disconnect and then the growing feeling that nothing matters any longer, like his body isn’t even his anymore. The fear that was all-encompassing becomes muted until it fades away into nothingness. Panic becomes complacency. What was he so upset for? It doesn’t seem to register now. Steve’s body stills as the fight leaves him. 

He’s theirs.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is taken, but not everything goes according to Pierce's plan...not if Natasha and Bucky have their way.

Chapter Twelve

Steve breathes evenly and deeply, and hands that were holding him down slowly release him. That’s okay, he’s fine right where he is. There’s nothing to worry about. 

A red-haired man looks down at him and nods. “That’s better,” he says, looking at the other man in the room. “Get him to the Box and get him prepped. I have some things to see to, then I’ll meet you there.”

The dark-haired man nods and the first man sweeps from the room without a glance back. It’s funny how Steve feels like he’s watching someone else’s life unfold, like these events really aren’t happening to him at all. The man, whose name Steve can’t quite recall, moves to the corner of the room; there is a banging sound and then a whoosh of plastic bag before he returns and gets at the head of the bed to start pushing Steve out into the hallway. 

Oh, good, they’re going for a ride. Steve has a vague memory of wanting to get out of that room, but he can’t think of the reason why. The change in scenery is nice, though. The hallway is busy with many staff members and people in plain clothes moving about. Everyone makes way for his hospital bed as they traverse the hallway in the direction of the elevators. 

The man pushing Steve’s bed stops to speak to one of the nurses behind the counter at the nurse’s station, and her eyes turn briefly to Steve, looking somehow sad. Steve can’t hear what they’re saying, but she nods and responds to what’s his name, Brumrod? Crumpleton? Steve looks away, finding the hallway more interesting. He gets a glimpse of red hair at the periphery of his vision that feels familiar somehow, but when he turns toward it, it’s gone, and they are moving again.

They pass the elevators and continue down the hallway, making a series of turns. The bed is big and cumbersome, so it’s slow going. Either that, or Bunglerow, isn’t in any particular hurry to get anywhere. Steve is mildly curious as to where they are headed, but not enough to ask. He’ll find out when they get there, after all. They pass hospital staff and visitors alike, a journey that takes several minutes, until they reach another set of elevators and their pace slows. Steve decides he needs to then address a problem he’s having. 

“Uh, Mr. Buncroft,” Steve pitches his voice so his companion will hear him, though he’s behind his head where he was pushing the bed. “Could you do me a solid and scratch my nose for me? I can’t seem to reach it.”

Steve wiggles his fingers. He’s got wrist bands on his arms that are caught on something, apparently, and he’s got a huge itch on the bridge of his nose that he can’t reach. He’s already tried turning his head and rubbing his nose on the pillow (which is scratchy enough but unreachable), to no avail. 

They’ve stopped at the bank of elevators and the dark-haired man comes around the side of his bed to push the up button. As he does so he looks over his shoulder and throws out a “NO,” then looks back to the elevators, ignoring Steve completely.

Steve frowns. That’s not very good customer service. Isn’t he the customer here? He clears his throat and tries again. “Excuse me, Mr. Rumpelsnatch, I’ll be a much happier patient if you just could scratch my nose for a nanosecond. It’s _really_ itchy.” 

Steve watches as the man’s chin drops to his chest and he huffs out a breath, then turns and addresses him. “I’m not scratching your damn nose. Deal with it,” he says testily, and turns away, not even waiting for Steve to answer. 

What’s he so grumpy for? Steve’s feeling just fine. Maybe Crummybuns should just try to be more like him. He tilts his head to the side and asks, “Are you having a bad day?”

The elevator doors open and the man sighs exasperatedly as he yanks on the front of the bed to pull it inside. Steve’s back is to the elevator doors and so is Bunnylip’s, since the elevator looks to be the kind that will open up on the opposite side once they reach their destination. He didn’t think there was anyone else there waiting with them in the hallway, but before the doors close he hears another person come in, and turns his head to see who it is. He gets a split second view of a petite woman with red hair stretching up on her toes to fiddle with something in the corner of the elevator. Then she settles on flat feet and turns back to him to smile. 

She’s wearing dark blue scrubs that match Bramblebee’s and she looks friendly (and maybe like a woman he knows but can’t quite think of), so Steve asks her, “Hey, could you do me a favor and scratch my nose? It’s really itchy.” He holds up his hands to show her why he can’t do it himself. 

Still smiling, she replies, “Why sure, sugar,” and reaches down with her index finger to scratch the top of his nose for him.

_Ahhhhhhhh._ It’s perfect. Just the right amount of pressure. Itch gone, he relaxes and smiles at Grumblerow when he turns around in surprise. Apparently he hadn’t heard the woman come into the elevator with them either, and his eyes widen. 

“Natasha, what are you doing here?” he asks. “Thought you were off on Fri…”

But as soon as Lumpyton started to speak, the woman moved toward him and there was a flash of something small and metallic. The end of Rumblesnitch’s sentence trails off, his jaw goes slack, and he crumples down over the end of the bed, right where Steve’s feet are. The woman pushes him over the bed more with one hand and reaches up to jab at the stop button on the elevator panel with the other hand. 

She looks back at Steve again as he regards the now-unconscious form of Mumblelove, slumped over the end of his bed. “He’s having a bad day,” he informs the woman solemnly, and she nods. 

“It’s about to get worse,” she tells him, with one eyebrow raised suggestively. “But first…” she pulls out a second metallic object from a pocket of her scrubs. A _needle_.

“Eww.” Steve makes a face. “You aren’t going to stick me with that, are you?” he looks from the syringe to her in mild alarm. Needles are bad, everyone knows that. 

Nodding, she pulls the cap off and stuffs it back into her pocket. “You won’t feel a thing.”

She uses the IV port in his arm, the one he forgot was there, and he _doesn’t_ feel a thing. But slowly, surely, this drug supplants the other, and he comes back to himself as if floating down from a very high cloud in the sky. Inside the halted elevator, Natasha wastes no time waiting. Instead she removes the restraints around his wrists and chest, kneeling next to his bed on one side, then the other. Horror and then relief wash over Steve as he realizes how close he came to being taken by Pierce, and how Natasha just saved his life. 

“Natasha,” he exclaims urgently as the fog in his head clears, and she looks up from the last buckle she is removing from his chest.

“You back now? Aces,” she murmurs, and stands. “We have to get out of here. Quickly.” She nods in the direction of the unconscious man slumped over Steve’s legs. “He needs to be the patient, and you need to be his companion. Your clothes are in a bag under the bed.” Her words are brisk and business-like, while Steve is trying in vain not to freak out. She provides focus for him, though, and it helps to have a clear purpose. Only a small part of him is in hysterics and shaking uncontrollably. 

Leaning down over the bed to bring her face into Steve’s sight line, she promises, “You’re gonna be okay, Steve, we’re not letting them get their hands on you, you hear me? They’re NOT going to touch you.” After waiting for Steve to nod and take a deep breath, she continues with a look of steely determination. “Now we need to move fast. Just stay with me.”

She holds the man in place—Rumlow, that’s what his name was—while Steve pulls his legs out from under him and hops off of the bed, knowing what needs to be done. In silent concert they work; Steve takes off his hospital gown, giving quick thanks to the stars that he still has on his boxer briefs, and squats down to retrieve his clothes. Natasha has Rumlow’s shoes off and his pants down by his ankles when Steve stands to pull on his shorts, already having thrown his shirt on over his head. 

“Let me pull him up to sitting, and you can get his shirt off,” he says hurriedly, zipping up his fly. He stuffs his feet into his shoes and moves down to the end of the bed.

“Roll him,” Natasha directs tersely, holding his legs. 

Steve nods. “Right.” 

Together they roll the unconscious man onto his back and then Steve manhandles him up into a sitting position so Nat can remove his scrub top. She rips it up over his head and grabs Steve’s hospital gown from where it was draped over the bed, replacing the blue scrub top with it.

“What do we do with him?” Steve inquires tensely, as they drag him up onto the bed onto his back, in the same position Steve was in, and draw a sheet up and over his chest.

“Get out of this area first, then hide him,” Natasha reveals, squatting down to collect Rumlow’s shoes and scrubs. 

She stuffs them into the same plastic bag Steve’s clothes had been in and puts it back under the rolling bed. Once they get Rumlow situated, she pushes the start button for the elevator and another button to take them up two floors. 

“Where are we going?” Steve asks in a low voice. Even though they’re in the elevator alone, when you’re sneaking around, it feels like you shouldn’t speak loudly. 

“Nephrology,” she answers, her voice equally low. “They don’t do dialysis on Fridays, so it should be quiet. We dump him and get the hell out of here.”

“How’d you find me?” 

A grimace settles on her face. “When you didn’t show up at the office and you didn’t text, Bucky got worried. I was already here at the hospital, so I scanned the emergency admits and there you were, admitted in an unconscious state.” She shuffles her feet, shifting her grip on the bed rail. “I couldn’t get you out of that department directly, so I had to wait until they tried to move you.” She tips her head toward him. “Sorry, I know that was shitty.”

Steve shakes his head and looks at her. Her face is calm, but serious. “I’m just glad you came for me. Thank you,” he says sincerely, as the elevator slows and stops. “And thanks for scratching my nose for me,” he adds with a small smile. 

God, was he loopy as fuck. What kind of cocktail did they even give him? What did Natasha give him? And what did she give Rumlow? That was a scary fast-acting tranquilizer, whatever it was. These people don’t fuck around. 

A soft laugh and an amused, “Anytime,” emanates from the redhead as the elevator doors whoosh open, but that’s all the levity she allows right now. She trucks the bed out into the hallway, while Steve plays the part of the concerned family member. This particular hall is very much occupied, but again no one pays much attention to them except to get out of the way of the bed. 

They turn a few corners and the crowd thins out, then becomes nonexistent. They pass through another set of double doors and it’s deadly quiet. As they enter an unoccupied patient room and pull the bed right up to the empty one already there, Natasha announces, “If they start a scan while we’re still in the building, whatever you do, don’t look at it. The only advantage of being in the hospital is that it’ll take them extra time to sort out all the laggers.”

Steve’s mouth falls open. “You mean the emergency drill?” he hisses. “The one they say is just for practice?” 

Natasha’s red head bobs as she heads for the door, never stopping. “Once they realize you’re missing, they’ll put in a request for a drill so they can locate you.”

“Shit,” Steve curses inelegantly and leaves the still form of Rumlow behind. 

All those years. All those scans. It never once occurred to him the government was using them for more nefarious purposes. They head back out into the deserted hallway and down the same way they came, with Steve slinking along silently behind his counterpart.

“I can’t hide from every scanner in the city, Nat.” 

“We’re getting out of the city. Now,” Natasha states simply, glancing back at him.

“What?” Steve gasps. “But you said…”

“Change of plans,” she replies dryly. “Now stop acting like you’re on the run and walk normally.”

Steve straightens out his spine, not realizing he was hunched over, trying to make himself look smaller and less noticeable. Once they leave this area, it won’t be deserted any more and he’ll have to look like a regular hospital visitor. How long till Rumlow’s absence is noted and they start looking for him? As they maneuver their way down the busy section of the department, Steve feels every pair of eyes on him, like they all recognize his fugitive status. Not likely, but there _are_ bound to be security cameras all over the place. 

“Nat,” Steve whispers, out of earshot of anyone else, “What about cameras? We’ll be on them.”

Shaking her head, she stays silent until they reach the elevator and she pushes the button to call for it. “Not live feed, not in this area,” she whispers into his ear. “It will take a while to review the tapes, if they bother. And I took care of the elevator cam already.” 

So _that’s_ what she was doing when she was on her toes, reaching up into the corner when she first got in. They go down quickly and Steve braces himself for the worst when the doors open again, but only the normal hospital noises greet them. Rapidly they exit the elevator and stride down the hallway to the left, with Natasha in the lead. 

Steve can guess where they’re headed, though, as the closest exit is in that direction. They only have to get past a reception desk situated around the next corner, and then it’s smooth sailing. There shouldn’t be any… _oh shit._

As soon as they start to round the corner Natasha backs up and reels him in by the arm, pushing him flat to the wall. They stay out of sight but have another peek; four security guards in black uniforms and with rifles slung over their shoulders all stand at the desk, listing to an indistinct chatter on their comm badges.

“Fuck,” Natasha swears. She turns around and pulls him by the arm. “We can’t get out this way. They already know you’re gone.”

They backtrack down past the elevators and in the other direction, but where can they go? There’s no other way out that’s close by and Steve’s nerves are starting to fray. The longer they’re inside The Center, the more nervous he feels. Right now there are a thousand accusing eyes on him, though in reality it’s one elderly man, making his way past them on a walker. 

Once he’s ambled past, the sound of his walker on the tile floor decreases, but in its place a new sound grows louder. Footfalls, more than one set, and the distinct squawk that’s made when a comm badge channel is being opened. _Security_. 

Before they are spotted, Natasha quickly yanks open a door and shoves Steve inside. Wildly he looks around; it’s a small consultation room, the kind doctors use to speak to patient’s families after a procedure. There are a couple of chairs, a table with some magazines to read, and nothing else. No other exit. 

Natasha has her ear to the door, leaning against it and listening. The shuffling sound of people approaching grows, and Steve holds his breath. A dark shadow passes over the slim, vertical pane of frosted glass that runs next to the door and the sounds slowly fade away, but Steve’s heart still pounds like he’s run a race. 

“Nat,” he starts to say, but she holds up one finger to silence him and turns around, putting her back to the door and looking down at the floor absently. 

This goes on for a good minute, which seems to Steve like _forever_ , but then she looks back up at him and reveals, “Bucky wants us to get to the loading bays in the back. They don’t have guards there yet.”

“Yet?” Steve repeats worriedly, and she nods. 

“They’re moving all available guards to the exits.” Opening the door a crack and peeking out, she seems satisfied and beckons for him to follow her, whispering a rushed “Follow me.”

Well, duh. What else is he going to do? Staying on her heels, they travel maybe twenty feet down the hall and then take the stairs down, all the way to the basement level. This section of The Center isn’t for patient care, it is instead for administrative workers. There are numerous offices and cubicles; the floor down here is carpeted (thin, commercial grade stuff) but Steve still feels the urge to tip-toe and has to force himself to move naturally. Just as they start to enter the maze, a loud tone sounds from overhead. 

_Oh God oh God oh God_. A scan is about to start. Natasha grabs his hand and moves faster. There are employees all moving around down here, just doing their daily work; no one pays much attention to them as they make their way toward the back of the building, though they do get some odd looks as they rush past. Most people just stop, look up, and wait for the scan to start. 

They wind their way through the office spaces and come to another stairwell entrance, getting inside just as the tones converge and the scan starts. They both keep their heads down and start climbing stairs, ignoring the blue light flashing inside the concrete stairwell and the angry bell tones. 

Natasha turns and tells him and speaks over the noise. “According to Bucky this comes out into a storage area and we should go left through it. He’ll be waiting for us at the loading bay exit.” 

Steve’s stomach flips at the thought of seeing Bucky again. Clearly there won’t be time for conversation, but he still feels excitement at the prospect. Bucky…his image forms in Steve’s head, with his piercing eyes and handsome face, but before Steve has time to even think about what he’ll do or say when they meet, a lightning bolt of pain sears across his temple and he stumbles on the stairwell, falling to one knee. 

“Steve!” Natasha cries out, hearing him go down. She turns to him, holding him by the shoulders. “Steve, come on, stay with me. You can do this,” she encourages him quietly. Blue light mixes with her red hair, and the room spins on its axis. 

_Fuck._ His vision is blurring, but he hasn’t passed out yet, so that’s something. Natasha’s voice sounds far away, but he focuses on it anyway. They’ve got to keep moving, so he forces himself to climb back to both feet, clutching at the metal railing on one side of the wall.

“Let’s go,” he mumbles weakly, and plants one foot a step up. 

Nodding, Natasha wraps one arm around his waist for support and they climb the remaining steps side by side. The scan is complete, and the space becomes silent again. Pushing open the door at the top of the stairs, she helps him along as they pass into the next room. The daylight is blinding, so Steve keeps his eyes on the ground as they move across some sort of storage space and toward the exit. 

Before they get far, a strange voice rings out. “You there, let’s see some ID.” 

Forcing his eyes upward, Steve sees through hazy vision a man in a black security uniform approaching them from the other side of the room. Blood pounds through his head, with spikes of pain that make him nauseous. It’s all he can do to remain upright. Natasha’s grip around his waist loosens but her body tightens next to him, like a snake coiled to strike. He wishes he could be of more help to her, but right now it seems like the best he can hope for is to not fall to the ground if she lets go of him.

She puts on a soothing tone of voice to speak to the guard. “Oh, we’re so sorry, we just took a wrong turn and ended up here. If you could point us to the nearest exit…” 

Hearing the unmistakable click of a weapon, Steve spots the barrel of a rifle pointed their way. 

“Stop right there,” the guard commands them, and drops his chin to speak into his comm badge. 

Steve knows once the guard relays their position, they’re done for. There won’t be any escape for him, only Pierce and the ominous-sounding box of horrors he mentioned earlier. He also knows he can’t let Natasha get hurt just to save him. Spy or not, volunteer or not, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he let her get shot. Before she can push away from him, he puts his arm around her shoulders and squeezes her to his side, trying to keep her trapped next to him. 

Then a bunch of things seem to happen all at once. Natasha squirms next to him, slipping as easily out of his grip as Houdini getting out of a straightjacket. The guard opens his mouth to speak. And from behind the guard, an arm suddenly appears, holding a syringe, which gets driven into the side of the man’s neck. Almost immediately he crashes to the ground, revealing another figure concealed behind him. 

Grey-blue eyes meet Steve’s. _Bucky._

Pain lodges somewhere behind Steve’s ear that makes his head jerk back, and Bucky rushes forward, wrapping his arms around Steve tightly.

“Steve!” he calls out, but the words sound more like a caress than a shout. A warm hand is placed on the side of his face and Bucky’s face swims in front of him.

“Hold on, baby,” Bucky whispers in his ear. 

From beside him, Natasha says urgently, “Bucky. Bring him.” 

Then it’s Bucky’s turn to wrap an arm around his waist and help him walk, and Natasha takes point. Sweat trickles down Steve’s temple with the effort of trying not to pass out, but he manages to keep moving. They are herded out the door by Natasha and down three concrete steps to a large, wide driveway that connects to two large loading bay doors. A long delivery truck is just backing in on the far side of the driveway and the driver gives them a couple of funny looks, but doesn’t stop. They don’t stop either, though Steve doesn’t immediately know or care where they’re going. They’re outside, and that’s what matters. 

Before he can even make the effort to ask what their next move is, a truck comes screeching in down the driveway and stops mere feet away. An old beater of a truck, with Sam at the wheel and Clint right next to him. The passenger side door pops open and Clint jumps out to help Bucky, who is now supporting most of Steve’s weight. His arms and legs feel like they are made of lead, and have stopped responding to most of the commands he’s giving them with his brain. 

“In the back,” Bucky directs quickly, and together they pour him into the back seat. Steve just…goes, no longer able to fight off the coming darkness. Bucky and Natasha are in the back seat with him but Steve leans heavily against Bucky, finding comfort there. He hears the door close again and feels the truck jiggle as Clint gets back in front. Then the tires screech as Sam takes off and they are moving. 

“What happened to him?” 

It’s Clint’s voice, and Bucky answers. “It’s the change. It’s happening. Right now.”

Steve tries to look around, but it feels like his eyes have rolled to the back of his head. With difficulty he focuses his eyes forward. The pain he thought couldn’t get worse? Gets worse. It’s that ice pick again, stabbing him in the temple. He hears voices he can’t quite locate, but recognizes just the same. 

Natasha’s feminine tone first. “We need to disable your scanner.”

Sam’s deep baritone. “Oh, you mean this one?”

Squinting, he sees Sam hold up a mangled scanner as he drives.

Bucky actually laughs, a short grunt. “Nice.” 

“I always hated that thing anyway. Where are we headed?”

Natasha’s voice again. “You two will be on surveillance aiding us, you know.”

Clint shrugs one shoulder and looks back at Steve. “Yeah. Worth it.”

Through dimming vision Steve makes out Natasha reaching forward and putting her hand on Clint’s shoulder. “Just get us out of town fast.”

Swallowing hard, Steve finds Bucky’s hand. “Buck…Sam and Clint,” he groans out. He has to be sure, he has to know Sam and Clint will be okay, too, after risking everything to come help him. It isn’t right, for so many people to give up so much, just for him. What will happen to them? They can’t stay here now either, not without going to jail, or worse. What were they thinking, the big idiots? He groans, and for once it’s not because of the pain. More words just won’t come out, but Bucky understands him already.

He squeezes Steve’s hand and whispers in his ear, “We’ll keep them safe, too. Don’t worry.” 

“I’m sorry…I’m so sorry,” Steve murmurs, shaking his head, but Bucky won’t have any of that. 

Releasing his hand, he caresses Steve’s cheek, and the touch is warm and loving. “Shh…don’t worry about that now. I’m here.” 

A soft kiss is placed on his forehead. It’s the last thing Steve remembers before losing consciousness again.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Great Escape...and other stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was really quite unwieldy and long, and it offended my anal-retentive nature so much that I had to split it into two. But, I thought I might be poked with long, pointy sticks if I waited to post the ending, so here you go, two chapters in one day! Woo!

Chapter Thirteen

“His phone is buzzing.”

“Clint, you grab it, my hands are full.”

“Should I throw it out the window?”

“No! Nat already fixed it so they can’t track it or anything.”

“So I shouldn’t have thrown mine and Sam’s out the window?”

“Oh my God, Clint, for real?”

“It’s a message from Pierce, telling Steve to surrender himself.”

“Seriously? When did you throw _my_ phone out the window, anyway?”

“When you gave it to me for safekeeping, dumbass. But no, I made that up about Pierce. It’s a message from Tony.”

“Don’t fuck with me while I’m on the run from our oppressive government _and_ attempting to operate a moving vehicle, Clint.”

“Can you guys focus? What’s the message say?”

“Sorry Nat. It says, hey Steve, feel better soon, heard you weren’t well. And don’t worry about that maintenance we were going to do this weekend, I forgot to call the work men anyway.”

Steve realizes he is listening to actual conversation and isn’t dreaming or hallucinating. He doesn’t remember passing out but assumes he must have again. He’s lying awkwardly on his back with his head on Bucky’s lap. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet, though, so he only knows it’s Bucky by his scent, and the way his hands are cradling his head. It’s that same comforting way he was held while lying on the floor at Tony’s house. 

Tony’s house. Something about that makes bells go off inside his very heavy, very painful head, and he struggles to get himself together again. 

From the front of the truck comes Sam’s voice. “We’ll be at the outskirts of the city soon…I’m gonna need some direction at that point.”

“Just head for the wall.”

That was Natasha’s terse voice, also from up front, but Bucky immediately protests.

“Nat, you know we can’t hit it till dark. What’s he supposed to do, lie on some rocks in the woods till then?”

The worry in Bucky’s voice spurs Steve into action. Well, if you count a soft moan of pain and a semi-slurred proclamation of, “I’m ffffine” as action. 

Steve manages to open his eyes and finds Bucky’s grey-blue ones looking down into his. Clint’s head pops into his visual field as well. He’s somehow sitting in the back seat with them, with Steve’s legs piled up on top of his lap. Vaguely Steve remembers Clint getting into the front seat and wonders how he and Nat switched places while the truck was in motion, but doesn’t put much thought into it. Thinking hurts. 

“Steve. Man, it’s good to see you awake again.” 

The relief in Clint’s voice is palpable, and Steve gives him a wobbly smile. “Good to be back.”

Bucky’s hand moves to caress his cheek and he questions him, “How do you feel?”

Swallowing hard, Steve looks up into Bucky’s beautiful face, with his dark hair falling all around it. He feels like shit, that’s how he feels, and it has nothing to do with pain right now. “I was such a dick to you. I’m sorry.”

If Steve was worried about Bucky not being able to forgive him, his answering smile would have erased any doubt he had. “I told you, I don’t care about that,” he says serenely. “I’ve got you back now.”

“Direction, people!” Sam hollers from the driver’s seat. 

Bucky’s head snaps back up in his sister’s direction. “We need a place to lay low till we can move him, and the truck is too visible,” he says insistently.

“Newly deactivated scanners are as dead a giveaway as if they’d truly scanned us, Bucky, you know that. We can’t just go break in somewhere and make ourselves comfy.”

From the earlier conversation he woke to, Steve infers they are all of them going to go _over_ the wall once darkness sets in, (though he has no clue how) and that Bucky is talking about _him_. He’s got to get up. He’s got to be able to _climb?_ He assumes that’s how one gets over the wall, anyway. Wouldn’t be so lucky that there’s a little door at the bottom they could just pick the lock to, right? 

Nat has to have a back-up plan, since she seems the capable type. But did she plan on Steve being in a near unconscious state? Steve looks past Bucky’s concerned face. It still seems pretty bright out. And he figures he must not have been unconscious for long if they’re just reaching the city limits, so they’ve got time before any attempt at escape is made.

He has to be able to stand and walk. Maybe run. No wonder Bucky wants to find a place to hide. _A place to hide._ Again bells ring inside his head. He attempts to push himself up into sitting, which immediately makes his head spin wildly enough to abandon that attempt. Bucky’s hand on his forehead also stops him, and he puts gentle pressure on to keep Steve from trying that again. 

“Please, stay down for now. Don’t want you passing out again.”

“But…I need to get up…” Steve protests weakly, and Bucky shakes his head.

“Not now, you don’t.”

“Steve,” Natasha says, looking back at him over the top of the front seat, “Did you have plans with Tony this weekend?”

“No.” That’s what those warning bells were going off about earlier…Tony…something about Tony.

Natasha’s head turns back up toward Bucky’s. “He’s telling us what we should do,” she breathes, and suddenly smiles. “Turn and head west. To Tony’s lake house,” she directs Sam.

Steve looks back to Bucky, the question unspoken on his lips when Bucky, too, smiles and figures it out. 

“He never got his scanners fixed!” He looks back down at Steve. “Tony never called the work men, even after Pepper scolded him.”

In an instant it clicks inside Steve’s head. Tony was smart enough to know they would need a place without functioning scanners, and gave them a clue that wouldn’t be easily understood by anyone who happened to be monitoring Steve’s phone. Brilliant. The wall wasn’t even that far from his house. They could hole up there until dark, and then…

“Buck, I can’t even sit up straight. How am I going to get over the wall?” Steve shakes his head, feeling Bucky’s strong legs shift slightly underneath it. This generates a bit of panic and worry that he’s going to get them all caught if he’s not mobile enough. He can’t let that happen, not after they’d all risked their lives for him, but Bucky shushes him and strokes his hair soothingly.

“You’re not going to have to worry about that for much longer. Just hold on,” he says enigmatically, and while it helps a little, it doesn’t erase all of Steve’s fears. 

“Besides,” Clint joins in, patting Steve’s knee (which currently is jammed up against Clint’s chest). “We’ve carried you this long, we can carry you a little further.” 

Steve has to smile at that, but then frowns. “You’re really ready to just up and leave everything?” 

It still doesn’t sit right with him, their sacrifice, but his friends don’t seem to see it that way. Clint makes a constipated face. “You think we would have just let them have you, dipshit? And then stay here, like nothing happened? Of course we’re ready.”

There is a touch of gloating in Sam’s voice when he speaks. “I think after all these years my paranoia finally rubbed off on him. He was babbling on the phone about cover-ups and you being stolen away so much, I could hardly understand him.” His head must turn toward Steve, because his voice grows louder. “I never would have forgiven myself if we didn’t rescue your dumb ass, whatever the consequences.”

Steve bites his lip to keep his emotion at bay. “You’re both assholes and I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Let’s hope you never find out, buddy,” Sam calls out from up front, and Steve’s chest feels warm. 

“How did you even get here? How…” he pauses, trying to find the words. _How did you decide to drop everything and give up your entire life just to keep me safe?_ Words just don’t do it justice.

Sam picks up where Steve left off, though, without skipping a beat. “You know me, can’t resist a good rebellion. As soon as Bucky told Clint he was worried about your whereabouts, Clint told me, and I hopped the next train in. I was way out in the field, too, almost didn’t make it in time!”

Steve closes his eyes for a moment, but doesn’t keep them shut long for fear Bucky will think he fainted. He can picture that easily enough, Sam having no trouble at all chucking his job for a chance to fuck The Man. That was pretty typical behavior on his part.

“So you took the train home and picked up your truck, just in case you needed a getaway car?” He’s trying to imagine how this all went down. A lot of things had to happen by pure chance: Nat being at work on her day off, Bucky checking his phone and realizing Steve was late, Sam having a vehicle they could use, when the majority of city residents didn’t even own their own cars any more. Luck seemed to be on Steve’s side right now. Maybe he could hold out hope for that little door in the wall. 

“Naw, that was all Clint,” Sam states, breaking into Steve’s reverie. “He got the truck, he was closer. I just told him where the key was hidden. While Bucky was scoping out the hospital scene, Clint had the girls in your office cancel patients, then ran over to our building.”

“Guys.” Steve waits for Clint to lean over so he can see him from his supine position, since Bucky still won’t let him pick up his head. “Thank you,” he announces simply, but sincerely. It doesn’t seem like enough, but Clint grins at him like it is. 

“Anytime.”

The remainder of the drive to the lake house Steve spends trading long, sweet looks with Bucky. He wants to talk in private and vows to finagle some time alone with the man _sometime_ in the very near future. If he can remain conscious, that is. But for now, Bucky keeps one hand in Steve’s hair and with the other, laces their fingers together and rests their joined hands down over Steve’s belly. 

It feels really nice and Steve expects the pain in his head to recede, but instead it only worsens. By the time they reach the house and park the truck in the empty garage, it’s really thumping. When he tries to turn his head the dizziness spikes, to the point of making him nauseous. Clint and Bucky both help him out of the back seat and stand on either side of him, helping to support his weight with his arms thrown over their shoulders.

“We’re going to have to ditch your ride somewhere near the wall, Sam,” says Natasha as she swings her way out of the passenger side. 

“Whatever,” Sam tosses over his shoulder as he nears Steve’s side. “I won’t miss it.”

“Oh, Sam,” Steve groans as he gimps his way toward the back of the truck. “All of your antiques!” He feels badly that Sam will be leaving all of his beloved belongings behind, after spending so much time collecting them.

“No worries,” Sam insists. “There’s only one thing I regret leaving behind.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Clint states, motioning in that direction with his head. “When I went to grab your truck, I ran upstairs and packed a bag for you. It’s in the back there.”

“You what? Why would you do that? And what about Steve? You didn’t pack for him, too?” Sam mutters, swiveling around to look in the truck bed. 

Natasha has beaten him there and is holding up an old, scuffed up duffel bag in her hands, with an indulgent smile resting on her face. A duffel bag that is _moving_ , and now _mewling_ loudly since its occupant sensed freedom may be near.

“ _Fluffy?_ ” Sam yells incredulously, and Steve feels Bucky chuckle at his side. 

As Sam darts over to take the bag from Natasha, Clint grins like a lunatic. “Couldn’t leave him behind.”

Clutching the bag to his chest, Sam looks like he’s about to cry. “You saved my cat. I can’t fucking believe you.”

“C’mon, let’s all get inside now, please. Sam, you can kiss Clint later,” Natasha teases, and Steve part walks, part stumbles inside with help from his two human crutches. 

Sam fetches the spare key from a fake rock in the yard and they haul Steve inside, getting him situated on a couch with some pillows under his head. The house looks the same as last time they were there, and is quiet and unoccupied. Bucky sits on the floor next to him, still holding his hand, with Natasha hovering behind him. 

She directs the others to go to the kitchen and check for any food they could eat, and they all file out obediently…after Sam sets Fluffy free from his confinement, scoops him up for a hug, and pulls Clint in for another hug, of course. 

“Won’t they come search this place eventually, Nat?” Steve asks worriedly.

“Yes,” Natasha answers honestly. “But we’ll be out of here before that happens.”

Steve groans as another wave of dizziness hits him. He didn’t even _move_ this time to bring it on. “How do you know that?” he persists, fretting about the safety of the group.

She lifts her eyebrows at him and taps her temple. “Contacts. Now stop worrying and try to relax. Bucky thinks it’ll be done soon.”

“Thinks what will be done soon, me dying?” Steve tries to joke, but _damn_ , it does feel like he’s on the way out. 

Smiling, she leaves the two of them alone in the room and Bucky squeezes his hand reassuringly. 

“Buck,” Steve says miserably, slowly turning his head to him to prevent more nausea, “I’m sorry I didn’t let you talk to me before…”

“Would you quit apologizing!” Bucky warns. “Look, I knew you were gonna be pissed off, I just didn’t know how pissed off.”

Steve is silent a moment and thinks back to his initial conversation with Natasha. “Can I ask you something?” When Bucky nods, he continues. “Nat said there was one thing you were gonna have to explain to me. How I could have thought my own image to you when I was asleep.”

Bucky’s eyes are veiled momentarily as he looks down, appearing to be warring with himself over whether or not he should answer Steve’s question. Eventually his gaze returns to Steve, steely-eyed with either resolve or resignation, Steve can’t quite tell. 

“It’s called binding. Two people who can not only share thoughts, but also images, even feelings. It’s not a common occurrence in all telepaths.”

Steve thinks about this, though it’s difficult to concentrate through the hurting in his brain it causes. Binding. So if it’s got a name, it’s happened before. He fails to see why Nat couldn’t have just told him that, though. There’s got to be more to it. 

“Binding. Why doesn’t it happen very much?” His thoughts race in scary directions. “Does it mean something’s wrong with me?”

Bucky is quick to jump in. “No, Steve, it doesn’t mean that at all.” He pauses and then _blushes_ from his cheeks to the roots of his hair, and Steve’s forehead wrinkles in confusion.

“What then?”

“It…it signifies a deep bond, one that develops between two people already in established relationships.” He pauses and takes a breath, letting it out quickly. “People who are already in love. There are no known cases of binding between two people who’ve never even met.”

_Oh._ Steve feels his own ears pink up and understands why Bucky looks so flushed and embarrassed. People who are in _love_. And he and Bucky communicated that way. Something squeezes hard in his gut. Is he in love with Bucky? Is Bucky in love with _him_? But they didn’t even know each other when it started! The enormity of that is just sinking in when Bucky goes on, speaking in a low, confidential voice.

“I think your skills are going to be extraordinary, Steve. I think _you’re_ extraordinary. Somehow you found me and called to me. You can’t know…you can’t know what that was like, how much I wanted to find you. Those months of seeing your beautiful face and not being able to speak to you.” Gently he passes one hand through Steve’s hair. “I lobbied for telling you everything as soon as we arrived, but then later, I was glad for the chance to know you, just for you, without any of those other worries or expectations pressing down on you.”

Steve gulps some air. His chest feels warm and liquidy on the inside, melting from the sweetness that is Bucky. He thinks about it from the brunet’s side, how weird it must have been to have a stranger making that connection with him, one usually reserved for couples, for lovers, and how hard it must have been to keep all that concealed. And what it means for them now…

“Buck,” he says softly, “I…”

He never gets a chance to finish that sentence, though, because just then there is a massive spike in his vertigo. The entire room spins and tilts on its axis, and a sharp jolt of pain lodges somewhere in his frontal lobe. His entire body jerks with the feeling like he is falling off the couch, even though he hasn’t moved, and he closes his eyes against it. 

It doesn’t help, because even in blackness everything still spins. Bucky’s voice sounds far away and getting farther… “Steve…Steve, can you hear me? Can you…”

Then there is crushing darkness and silence again.

\--

When Steve wakes next, the pain in his head is completely gone, as is the dizziness. The room is quiet, and he’s still lying on the couch. There are voices from another room, perhaps the kitchen, and they’re just in normal conversational tones, so he doesn’t worry about them being in danger at the moment.  
Slowly he cracks open his eyes, because what he is worried about is the return of his symptoms…but nothing happens. The light in the room looks different, though; the sun coming in the front window is much lower now, indicating late afternoon or early evening.

That means he was unconscious for a much longer period this time. And yet, there is no pain now, except for his parched throat. He turns his head, searching for Bucky, but doesn’t have to look far. He’s still on the floor next to the couch, but now his head is down, forehead resting on his forearm on the cushion next to Steve’s side. 

“Bucky…” Steve croaks and clears his throat, as the dark head lifts at once.

“Steve!” he sounds relieved. “How do you feel?”

“The pain is gone right now. Everything is gone,” Steve tells him, not really understanding yet what’s going on, still expecting the return of that pain at any moment. 

_Steve, I love you. I want that to be the first thing you hear. How much I love you._

“Bucky, I…” Suddenly Steve stops, staring and blinking. “Wait,” he thinks out loud. “Your lips didn’t move.”

The most beautiful smile Steve has ever seen spreads across Bucky’s face.

Bucky: _That’s because I’m not talking, I’m thinking. To you._

“I can _hear_ you,” Steve says in wonder. “Bucky, I can _hear_ your voice, inside my head.” 

Tears gather in the corner of his eyes as he stares at Bucky, who appears similarly affected. He can _hear_ Bucky, with no words being spoken…and he just said “I love you.” _He loves me._ And Steve knows, deep in his heart, he loves Bucky, too. Completely and absolutely. The anger, the hurt….it was never about Bucky’s past being concealed. It was never about the lie of why they came. It was always about the possibility of Bucky not caring for him, of Bucky sleeping with him as part of some ruse or cover or whatever other bullshit Steve’s brain concocted. 

Feeling so wounded…it was all because he’s fallen for Bucky, and fallen hard. That evening they spent together wasn’t just about casual sex. Bucky is everything Steve has been looking to find. And he’s here, right by Steve’s side, ready to be with him. 

What’s more, everything they said was true, every word. He wouldn’t have needed the proof, since he’d already decided to trust Bucky before he ended up in the hospital, but here it is anyway. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. He’s _telepathic._ Steve’s pulse starts to race. Holy _shit_ , he can communicate with Bucky without even _speaking._

Wait, can he? He can hear Bucky’s thoughts, but can he send him one of his own?

Bucky takes his hands, speaking out loud now. “Try to think a message to me. Anything. Think of me, and direct it to me.”

Closing his eyes to concentrate, Steve first thinks about what he wants to say, before doing it. It doesn’t take long to figure out. 

Steve: _I love you._

The smile on Bucky’s face returns and his eyes sparkle. His hand goes to Steve’s cheek, thumb brushing across it tenderly. “Steve,” he murmurs, and presses his lips down over Steve’s, warm and pliant, a soft, delicate kiss. Maybe the best one Steve has ever had.

They are noisily interrupted, however, when Natasha dashes into the room and skids to a stop, looking at Steve expectantly.

“Steve! You did it!” she says excitedly. 

“Awwww, crap!” Steve makes a face. “You heard that, too, didn’t you!”

She smiles widely. “Yes. Sorry,” she admits, looking not at all apologetic. 

Steve’s face falls, and she holds up her hands. “I know it wasn’t for me, but it was really sweet.” 

She ignores the groan Steve makes and the giggle that comes out of Bucky’s mouth as he withdraws. 

“Traitor,” Steve whispers to him in jest, and Bucky’s brilliant smile disarms him. Doesn’t look like anything could dim Bucky’s joy right now. 

“Anyway,” Natasha continues, dropping her hands back to her sides, “Try again. It just takes practice to localize your thoughts to one person. You’ll get it.”

Steve focuses again, only on Bucky, picturing him inside his head. He’s sure he can get it this time, but selects a slightly less personal and embarrassing message, just in case.

Steve: _Do you have all of your own teeth?_

The response, which is for both Bucky and Natasha to burst into laughter, is not the desired one, and Steve frowns.

Bucky: _Don’t try so hard. You’re broadcasting because of the strength of your mind. It’s impressive, but more than you need._

Bucky’s mellow voice in his mind is something Steve could really get used to. A warm, comforting feeling fills him up inside, one so familiar he can’t mistake it; it’s the same sensation he had all those nights when dreaming. _Bucky_ is making him feel that way. How, he doesn’t know. He just _does._

Bucky: _Feel my thoughts and emulate them. Don’t shout, just whisper._

Steve puts his other thoughts on the back burner and tries again. Don’t shout, just whisper. 

Steve: _Buck, you mean everything to me. I love you so much._

Another smile, another brush of the back of Bucky’s fingers over his cheek.

Bucky: _And I even have all my own teeth._

They’re both smiling at each other but then turn to Natasha, waiting for her response. When their eyes land on her, she raises her eyebrows. “I didn’t get any of that,” she asserts. “Excellent, Steve.”

“Thanks,” he grins, pleased with himself. Apparently he can’t stop grinning, either. “Does this mean I won’t have those headaches anymore?”

She shrugs lightly. “Maybe some residual pain for a few days, but nothing like before. I’m gonna run and get you some water, and get the boys in here.” 

It’s cute how she refers to Sam and Clint as “the boys”, or so Steve thinks, and he smiles at her back as she bolts from the room. Bucky takes both his hands. 

“Do you want to try sitting up?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “I feel great.”

He is helped up to a seated position because Bucky is Bucky, but really Steve needs no assistance. No vertigo plagues him and his head feels a little sore when he moves, but nothing out of the ordinary. It was like a switch was pulled inside his head, reversing everything he’d been feeling in the last day. He takes a deep breath and looks up to where Bucky now stands in front of him. 

Bucky: _We’ll need to get on the move now. You were out longer than we thought you’d be. You up to it?_

Steve: _I’m fine as long as you’re with me._

Bucky: _Not going anywhere without you._

He stretches out a hand, but before Steve can take it a ball of grey fur attacks from the top of the couch seat back and Steve’s head is turned into a scratching post. Fluffy clings to the back of his head and neck, four little legs wrapped around him like a starfish, batting at his face with soft paws.

“Aauugghh!” Steve yells, bringing everyone else in from the other room.

Sam gives him a nonchalant thumbs up as he enters the space. “Oh hey, thanks man, I was looking for Fluffy earlier.”

“Awww Steve, are you and the cat finally bonding?” Clint teases. 

Both Steve and Bucky give a telltale cough and look at each other when they hear the word “bonding.” Steve feels more than sees Natasha’s curious eyes on them, while Sam strides forward to relieve him of his charge. After eventually getting Fluffy pulled off of his head, Steve hands him over. Damn cat.

“Don’t let him run off,” Natasha requests, handing Steve a bottle of water in turn. “We’ll be out of here soon.” 

“Now that Steve is done transforming into an alien like you two?” It’s Clint, teasing as usual, and he shrugs when Steve grimaces at him. “What? She said so.”

Rolling her eyes, Natasha shoots back a rebuttal. “This alien is gonna kick your butt if you don’t shut it. Everyone make sure you have what you came in with.” She looks around the cheery room and adds, “Don’t leave anything behind.”

“No chance of that,” Bucky murmurs, and extends his hand to Steve again. 

Having gulped half the water down thankfully, Steve screws the cap back on and holds onto the bottle for later. Taking Bucky’s hand, he allows himself to be pulled back up to his feet. “How exactly is this going to work?”

Natasha turns to him. “We take the truck. Only back roads. When we get near the wall, we ditch it and stay hidden in the woods till dark. There are normal periodic patrols aside from any search parties that may be sent out, so we need to be fast, at least on the way up.”

“But not on the way down?” Clint asks curiously.

Natasha’s head shakes. “Their main defense is getting you before you reach the wall. It’s relatively unprotected otherwise.”

Sam pipes up sarcastically, “After all, it’s just supposed to keep other people out, not keep us in, remember?”

“Oh. Right.” 

Natasha continues on. “Our contact will have our location and the equipment we’ll need.”

“The equipment we’ll need to break through a little door at the bottom of the wall and walk through?” Steve asks nervously, and Natasha chuckles dryly.

“Not exactly.”

“Then it’s a big door?”

“No door. We’re going over.”

“Shit,” Clint curses.

Steve scratches his head. “We’ve never rappelled before, just so you know.”

Bucky smiles and gives his hand a squeeze. “This is only a little like rappelling. Much easier. The winch pulls you right up, no effort at all.”

“If you say so,” Clint replies, sounding doubtful, and Steve shares his butterflies. 

Rappelling or not, easy or not, this is beyond anything he ever dreamed. The past twenty-four hours have turned his whole life upside down. Now he’s on the brink of hurtling himself into the complete unknown. It's never a place he’s found himself in, and though part of him is petrified, the other part is…okay. Nervous for sure, but eager, almost, because as long as Bucky is with him, he trusts that they’ll somehow make it. 

Of course, Steve considers ruefully, he also thought retinal scans were just part of a safety drill, so what the fuck does he know?

\--

Ten minutes later, after bathroom breaks and an unhappy Fluffy being apologetically stuffed back into the duffel bag for the duration, they are all in the truck again and on a dirt road, winding through a wooded area not far from the edge of Sanctuary. 

Around every bend and curve in the road, Steve expects to see police cars lined up, lights flashing, but so far all they’ve seen are a few startled deer. His nerves are shot to hell, despite Bucky’s assurances that the search for them has not been narrowed down to one specific area yet. To distract him, Bucky asks if he’s hungry (he’s ravenous) and he pushes a small, rectangular package into Steve’s hands. 

Steve: _What’s this?_

Bucky: _Strawberry yogurt bar. Try it._

Wanting to practice his new-found skill, Steve has been taking every opportunity he can to speak non-verbally to Bucky. Sam, also in the back seat with them so he can hold bagged-Fluffy in his lap, observes their traded looks asks, “Hey, are you doing the silent talking thing right now? That’s so cool!” 

Clint, up in the front seat driving, looks in the rearview mirror at Steve. “Come on, Steve, prove to us you’re telepathic now.”

“How am I supposed to prove it if you’re NOT telepathic?”

“Tell Nat and Bucky what happened that night you two lost your shirts at the bar!” Sam hoots.

Wrinkling up her nose, Natasha asks, “What, like gambling?”

“NO ONE IS SUPPOSED TO KNOW ABOUT THAT!” Steve hollers, throwing his yogurt bar at the back of Clint’s head, and Sam laughs, then leans down and picks it up from the floor of the truck.

“You have _met_ Clint before, right?”

At least Clint has the decency to look ashamed, peeking at Steve in the rear view mirror. “Sorry Steve, he beat it out of me!”

“Likely story,” Steve grumbles, crossing his forearms in front of him. 

Bucky, though, elbows him enthusiastically. “Come on, tell me!” He grins. “I have to know, now.” When Steve’s pouty lower lip sticks out, he reaches up with an index finger and gently pushes it back in, giving him soft doe eyes as encouragement. “Please?”

Huffing out a breath, Steve mumbles a “Fine,” and thinks a message to him and Natasha. 

Steve: _Clint and I got so drunk celebrating after he passed boards, we threw up all over each other and had to walk home shirtless. Five blocks. In the dead of winter._

Looking sideways out of the corner of his eye, Steve tries to sneak a look at Bucky, who is actively trying to suppress a smile and failing. Natasha doesn’t even try that hard. Laughing, she asks out loud, “What the hell were you drinking, battery acid?”

Bucky snorts out a laugh. “Did you have mittens or a hat? Cuz that would have been cute.”

Steve shakes his head, unable to avoid a smile himself, and hears Bucky’s thought to him. 

Bucky: _Bet your bare nipples were pretty perky out in that cold, huh babe? What a turn-on._

“Shut up,” Steve says, without any heat in his voice, and looks up at Clint in the mirror. “Satisfied?”

“Yep!” Clint answers, with a pop of his lips, while Sam grins like the Cheshire Cat, white teeth shining in his dark face, and takes a big bite out of Steve’s yogurt bar. 

“Fantastic,” Steve grumbles, and Bucky’s hand snakes around his waist to give him a comforting squeeze. 

“By the way, Steve,” Natasha states mildly, posed halfway turned around in the front seat with one arm up on the back of it, “When that guard got the drop on us in the hospital, thank you for trying to protect me. I meant to say so earlier, but you were unconscious.”

“What?” Bucky sounds confused and looks at Steve curiously, but before Steve can even make a reply, Natasha goes on. 

“The guard with the rifle. Just before you tranked him, Steve was trying to stop me from going after him. I think he was worried I would get shot.”

Steve remembers the moment perfectly well, how nimbly Natasha wriggled out of his grasp, and how he had absolutely no plan to deal with the guard in any other way. Probably not the smartest idea he ever had, but it seemed like the thing to do at the time. “Umm, well…” he starts and falters.

Bucky squeezes his side again. “What, so you could get shot instead? She’s trained for this.”

“Yeah but…”

Clint rolls his eyes. “That sounds like something Steve would do.”

Steve gets in a self-deprecating laugh. “You mean something incredibly brave?”

“Yeah, that. And incredibly stupid.”

Natasha laughs; her eyes are twinkling, but kind. “It was very gallant of you. Thank you.”

Steve blushes. “Um…you’re welcome,” he mumbles, and blushes harder when Bucky kisses the tip of his nose.

Bucky: _My hero._

Steve: _Oh, shut up._

After another half hour of driving, Natasha judges them to be close enough to walk the rest of the way, so they abandon Sam’s truck in a clearing and set off on foot. By now it it’s getting close to dusk, so they need to find their way before it gets completely dark and impossible to navigate the narrow wooded path they are on without using flashlights and giving away their positions. 

Wind rustling through leaves on the trees and a cacophony of cricket songs are the only sounds aside from the shuffling of their shoes over the dirt and leaf-covered path. They no longer talk, but for necessary whispers and for the silent communication possible between Steve, Natasha and Bucky. 

As they approach the wall they must rely on Natasha for guidance, because night is settling in and they can’t actually _see_ the thing even though it’s pretty fucking tall, because of all the trees blocking their view. Only when they reach the edge, where the trees have been cut back away from the border, can they get an unobstructed view. 

Even then, the wall isn’t lit, so it appears as a dark, shadowy menace that blocks out their view of the horizon. In person, it looks tall. Really tall. Like, so tall that Steve starts to freak out internally. They’ll be so exposed…how are they going to get over this monstrosity quickly and quietly? 

Natasha stops them when they are still under cover of trees and whispers directions. “It takes about thirty minutes for the normal patrol to sweep their route, so as soon as they go past, we start. Two of our partners are going to help us. Peter will be at the top of the wall operating the winch. Thor will come down this side, buckle one person in, and go back up in tandem, just in case you lose your footing.”

Not liking the sound of this, Steve whispers back, “So only one person goes at a time? Will we have enough time to get everyone over the top before they come back?”

“It’ll be enough,” Bucky insists, and then drops the bomb. “You’re first, Steve.” 

“No fucking way,” Steve fires back, quietly but firmly. “There’s no way I’m leaving you all unprotected on this side, not when I’m responsible for you all being here.”

“Steve…”

“No. Sam and Clint go before me.”

Natasha: _Steve, be reasonable. You’re the one they want the most._

Steve: _NO. Nat, I can’t leave them behind. Make Bucky understand, please. He won’t want to listen to me on this._

The two of them have a brief stare-down in the dark, with the moonlight their sole illumination. Steve wins. Natasha turns and points a finger at Sam. 

“You and Fluffy first, then Clint, then Steve.” She immediately flips to her brother on her other side, already sputtering angrily at her. “Bucky…trust me,” she pleads, and the two of them are so silent it becomes obvious they are communicating privately. There are hand gestures and shaking heads, just no words. It would be comical except for the danger they were in. 

The other three men not involved in the discourse just stand and watch. Sam nudges Steve with his elbow and murmurs, “If it came to blows, who do you think would win?”

“Twenty on the redhead,” interjects Clint.

“I’ll take that,” Steve says out of the corner of his mouth, if only to defend the honor of his love. “But maybe she didn’t need my help after all.”

Whatever was said during the argument, Steve doesn’t know, but after a minute, Bucky sighs heavily and relents. “Alright,” he agrees, not sounding happy about it in the slightest degree but pivoting to Sam anyway. "You're up, Wilson.”

“Uh…” Sam starts, also sounding not happy but not willing to argue with a strong-willed woman like Natasha. 

He is shushed by her and she holds up a hand in warning. In the distance, the sound of a car grows steadily louder. They all shrink back further from the edge, staying hidden in the trees and foliage. Headlights approach, throwing two beams of light that jump around crazily as a small truck bumps along on an uneven dirt-track road running parallel to the wall. A patrol. Steve holds his breath as it moves slowly past them and continues down the road, with no discernible change in speed.

As soon as the sound of the motor fades away, Natasha takes Sam’s arm. “You all stay put,” she says, directing her words to Steve and the others, then looks at Sam. “Let’s go.”

Clutching his duffel bag to his chest, Sam gives him and Clint one last look. “See you soon,” he says softly, and they are off in the darkness.

Steve’s stomach is in knots, his heart in his throat. “How does Nat know where to go?” he rasps to Bucky, who points at the wall.

Now that their eyes have adjusted more, and also because it is a clear night with moon and star in attendance, the white concrete of the wall doesn’t seem as dark. Just where Bucky is pointing, Steve can make out a dark shape, coming down the side of the wall at a fast pace. 

“That’s Thor,” Bucky whispers, “Coming down on the rope.”

The dark shape reaches the ground and for a minute it’s hard to see much of anything, but then a much larger shape starts to ascend, this time moving more slowly. Two people. Steve still worries about their time frame, but they do seem to be making good time up the side of the wall; whatever mechanism they are using, it’s a lot faster than just rappelling would be. 

Natasha appears at Bucky’s side. “One down,” she whispers, slightly out of breath from running back and forth. The clearing between them and the wall has to be a good forty yards. They all wait together with baited breath for the dark mass to reach the top of the wall, many stories up. 

“Good thing I’m not afraid of heights,” Clint whispers in a barely there voice, and Steve clasps his elbow. 

“You’ve got this,” he tells him, trying to sound positive. 

On the inside, he’s shaking like a leaf and is terrified they’ll be caught, but he’s doing his best to keep that on the inside. Nobody else can see his knees knocking, after all. 

Thor’s smaller, solo silhouette is moving down again, and Clint gives Steve a fast hug. “Be safe, Rogers.” 

Then he and Natasha are gone, and it’s just him and Bucky. Warm hands cup his face and he reaches for their owner, finding his waist and clinging to it.

Bucky: _I’ll be right behind you. And no matter what, you do NOT put yourself in danger, you hear me?_

Steve nods and Bucky kisses him gently on the lips, mouth warm in the cooling night air. He can see Bucky’s eyes, focused on him in the dark, his long hair waving gently around his face in the breeze. A thousand words couldn’t relay the way he is feeling right now, so thankful that Bucky came into his life, thankful that Bucky _saved_ him, thankful that Bucky wants him to be a part of his future going forward. So much to convey, and only a second’s time in which to convey it. He doesn’t even try, because Bucky already knows. He can feel that, deep down. 

Instead, Steve simply says, 

_I love you._

And Bucky replies: _I love you, too._

Out of the darkness, Natasha returns and they wait in silence for Thor and Clint to go up. When it’s his time, Steve kisses Bucky once more. 

_Wish me luck. I love you more than anything._

Bucky: _Good luck. Don’t look down._

Then it’s out across the low brush of the field. They move at a jog rather than an all-out sprint, to avoid one of them stepping in a hole and turning an ankle. Covering the ground quickly, the wall looms up above them. A rope above them whistles madly as a large shape takes long drops on it; Steve can now see there are actually two ropes, one for each person. From about twenty feet up, Thor takes the last jump and hits the ground next to them, remarkably light on his feet. Though hard to tell from a distance, Natasha’s partner is huge, a mountain of a man, a few inches taller even than Steve and just as broad at the shoulder. 

Thor: _Steven, nice to meet you. Step into the harness, please._

He’s telepathic, too, Steve thinks briefly, and looks down. Thor holds a canvas harness in his hands, tethered to his own by a third rope and thick, metal carabiner. 

“Okay,” Steve says aloud, not attempting to concentrate on speaking telepathically at the moment. He gets into the harness and waits while Thor cinches it up and clips it back in to the rope hanging from the wall. Natasha’s petite figure is next to him.

Natasha: _Start with one foot on the wall. All you have to do is start walking up the side. The winch will do the rest. But we need to hurry._

Steve tries to turn and look at her, but she is already on the move again, heading back to her brother.

“What?” he hisses to her retreating back, but it’s Thor’s deep voice that responds, and chills him to the bone. 

“They’re coming.”


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end...continued from last chapter, which was just posted. Not to confuse you, but dang, when my chapter lengths are wildly uneven it just bugs me!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, the end has come. This has been quite different from my other fics, so thanks to all you lovely readers who stick with WIP's and leave comments and encouragement, and welcome lovely readers who are reading for the first time! You all rock. 
> 
> And have a happy Labor Day!

Chapter Fourteen

"They're coming."

Panic is the automatic reaction, but Steve barely has any time to consider unclipping himself from the harness to take off after Natasha before the rope tightens and pulls at his waist. Thor has one booted foot up on the wall and points for Steve to do the same. There is a faint mechanical whirring from high above, and Steve feels himself starting to be lifted from the ground.

He barely gets his foot up on the wall in time. The winch lifts him up and suddenly he is no longer standing perpendicular to the ground. Natasha was right, it’s hardly any work at all for him to start climbing, but that doesn’t help to lessen his paranoia. 

“How long?” he speaks to the darkness, addressing Thor behind him.

Thor: _Soon. We just need to keep moving. I promise you, Steven, I will get them both out safely. You have my word._

Thor’s word. He hopes that’s enough. As they climb he looks around, desperate to see what’s going on below. The ground already looks very far away but for right now, everything still appears dark. He can’t turn around to try and see Bucky and Natasha or risk losing his footing, so he grits his teeth and just keeps climbing. The wall above seems endless, but in reality it doesn’t take long at all to reach the top, and his two best friends. 

Their faces, along with another he assumes is the Peter that Natasha mentioned earlier, peer down over the side and welcome him to freedom. 

Hands grab at him and help to pull him up all the way. The wall itself is deep, probably five feet across, so there’s plenty of room to stand. Fluffy’s duffel bag is on the ground next to them. As soon as Steve’s footing is steady, strange hands grab at his harness and unclip him. 

“Excuse me for being handsy,” Peter declares, “But we gotta hurry.”

“I know,” Steve says in agreement, shimmying out of the canvas straps as fast as he can. 

The moment Steve steps free, Thor grabs it and disappears again over the side. Steve turns and falls to his hands and knees so he can see what’s going on below. The rope tightens and there is a loud whistling as Thor free falls what looks like half the distance down the wall in an attempt to speed up the process. 

“Glad you made it, pal,” Sam whispers next to him, and Clint grunts in agreement. “Have I ever mentioned I’m afraid of heights?”

“Sorry, Clint,” Steve returns, and looks up at Peter, standing at the winch with his head tilted down. He appears to be a big man as well, easily Steve’s size. “It hasn’t been a half an hour, what’s going on?” Steve asks, craving any information he can get. 

“Some random hikers reported the truck,” Peter tells him. “They’re sending teams to check the border.” He turns to regard Steve. 

_I’m Peter, by the way. It’s good to meet you. I also have all my own teeth._

Steve doesn’t know whether to laugh hysterically or cry. How many telepaths _heard_ that question? And how can Peter sound so calm, when he himself is on the verge of a nervous breakdown? “I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “For putting you all in danger.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault your government sucks,” Peter says generously. “This is what we do.”

Steve drops his head down, letting it hang between his shoulders. Sam grasps one of his arms in a gesture of comfort. Steve can’t really tell what’s going on down on the ground, so he closes his eyes and thinks. 

_Bucky._

Bucky: _I’m here. I’m coming. Don’t worry, it will all be over soon._

Steve: _Where? Where are you?_

Bucky: _About a quarter of the way up the…NO!_

Bucky’s voice changes suddenly into pure fear. Steve opens his eyes and looks down. There are lights, closing in on their ground position fast. Three different sets, easily visible from the top of the wall, but not all together. Two are further back, minutes away, but the closest…it’s close. It will be there in seconds. A babble of voices next to him starts up. 

“Look, there are lights coming.”

“Are those cars?”

“What do we do?”

“Where’s Natasha?”

“I can’t see Bucky yet.”

As the light draws closer they can see it is not a vehicle, at least not one they are familiar with. Larger than a car, oblong in shape, with a large black base. There is a small cab in the front with an open area in the back. 

“A fucking _hovercraft,_ ” Sam says hollowly. “They do have hovercrafts.”

Steve’s mouth hangs open, fear freezing his jaw in place. There are three men on the craft; one is driving, one has a spotlight he flicks on and aims toward the wall, and the other….

…the other has a rifle. 

_Bucky_. Steve digs his fingers into the concrete he’s kneeling on. Stars twinkle in the sky above, but he can only look down in horror. Helplessness and fear overwhelm him. While he sits at the top of the fucking wall, the man he loves dangles below, unable to defend himself. What can he do? Throw himself over the wall? Not very helpful. But he can’t just _sit_ here. 

There are a lot of voices in Steve’s head, all jumbled together at once.

_Tranquilizers?_

_Out of range._

_Peter, stop the winch._

_Don’t you dare!_

_No, Bucky! Keep going. I’m unclipping from you._

_No problem. I’ve got this._

The hovercraft has pulled to a stop just below them and the man holding the spotlight pans it up the wall, bathing it in white light. _Oh please oh please oh please_. Bucky’s shadow is thrown up the wall toward them as the spotlight lands on him, and Steve’s heart stops. Thor is no longer with him; Bucky is still moving upward, but he’s only scaled half the distance they need. He’s completely exposed. 

The man holding the rifle raises it up to his eye, and a clawing dread and terror take hold deep inside Steve’s chest. Before he can scream, a new figure appears in the circle of light illuminating the back half of the hovercraft. 

Natasha. Moving faster than Steve ever imagined she could, she catapults herself onto the back of the craft. The man with the rifle turns, catching her movement, and points the weapon at her, but she kicks it right out of his hands and then grabs the man around the shoulders, pulling his head down and bashing it into her knee. 

He reels backward and the man who was at the driver’s wheel comes barreling out of the cab next, brandishing a hand gun of some kind. Steve can only see the glint of dark metal in his hand, being pointed in Natasha’s direction, before yet another dark shape joins the melee. 

Thor comes swinging down on the rope, landing solidly on his feet in the middle of the hovercraft’s open section. Immediately he turns and punches the driver, a sharp uppercut that sends him crashing into the third guard, the one holding the spotlight. It blinks out, leaving Bucky in darkness again as he continues to climb the wall. 

The man Thor punched now lies motionless on the floor of the craft, and Thor has picked up the rifle discarded by Natasha’s opponent. It swings in a wide arc, catching that guard on the side of the head. Down he goes, a boneless heap next to the driver. 

That leaves the man who had been aiming the spotlight up the wall. He has also pulled out a hand gun and extends his arm toward Thor, only to be jumped from behind by Natasha. She flies up off the side of the vehicle and attacks, wrapping both legs around the man’s neck and pulling him to the ground acrobatically. Her arm moves in a stabbing motion, but it’s too far away for Steve to be able to discern what she stabbed the man with. 

Not that Steve really cares. Whatever it was, the man no longer moves, and that’s all that matters. 

“Atta girl.”

That was Peter, and Steve swivels his head to look up at him. He’s grinning widely, and nods to Steve. “She’s wicked with a tranquilizer dart. They’ll be right up.”

Steve lets out a giant breath he didn’t know he was holding, and turns to look at his two friends. Their eyes are as wide as saucers, and they look as shell-shocked as Steve feels. All three lean into each other, touching their heads in a silent salute to their safety. Before Steve can say anything, though, Bucky appears at the edge of the wall, and Steve loses his mind completely. 

“Bucky!”

All three of them grab at his arms and shoulders to help pull him up and Bucky falls into Steve’s arms, giving him a relieved, tight hug and almost bowling him over onto his back. Steve kisses his cheek and buries his nose in his neck, almost ready to cry in relief and happiness. They breathe into each other, enjoying a brief moment of intimacy before Bucky stands and pulls Steve up as well. He unclips himself from his harness and steps out of it hastily.

“Peter?” he asks, not having to finish his query. 

“Yep. Got ‘em both,” Peter returns, still operating the winch. 

Clint and Sam remain on their hands and knees, craning to see over the side of the wall. Sam turns his dark head and looks at Steve.

“ _Dude_. Don’t _ever_ bet against the redhead,” he advises, and he and Clint both push back away from the edge at the same time Thor’s head appears. 

“Grab her,” he says roughly. Sam, who is closest, reaches over his wide shoulders to get a grip on Natasha, clinging to Thor’s back with her legs clasped around his waist. She’s wearing no harness whatsoever and held onto the big man the entire ride up the wall. She accepts Sam’s help and gets to her feet gracefully, brushing nonexistent dirt off her thighs and tossing her red hair over her shoulder. 

“Well,” she states blandly as Thor rejoins them and all seven stand at the top of the wall. “That was fun, but let’s get the fuck out of here, shall we gentlemen?”

\--

Epilogue

Steve rolls onto his back and pushes himself up into sitting, leaning back against the voluminous bed pillows. The view outside the twelve foot window on the other side of the room leaves him breathless yet again. Always does, no matter how many times he’s seen it. 

The second story deck outside looks out on a grassy field and in the far distance beyond that, mountains. _Real_ mountains, like he’d never seen before, with high peaks and snowy caps, the whole kit and caboodle. The early morning sun lights them up in such a glorious way, he can’t help but pause a moment and take it in. As he does so he listens to the sounds of an awakening household around him, and checks in.

Steve: _ETA?_

Bucky: _Five minutes, baby. Girls jumping on the bed?_

Steve chuckles. _Sounds like Reagan is plundering the kitchen stock again._

Bucky: _Hold tight. Chocolate-covered bear claws incoming._

Steve hops out of bed and throws on the shirt and sleep pants Bucky tore off of him the night before, then goes down to hold off Tony’s children till Bucky and food arrives. He and Bucky had purchased this house a month after Steve’s rescue, moved in together, and never looked back. It was new construction, along with several other houses on their newly-paved street. Sam just happened to live in another one next door.

It pleased Steve to no end, how some parts of his life didn’t have to change, and it satisfied that part of him desiring constancy. He and Sam were still neighbors, Clint was still his PA in the orthopedic practice Steve opened here in Bucky’s hometown, and Fluffy was still a pain in the ass. 

There were, however, some other changes. Sam started working with Natasha, Peter, and Thor to help other telepaths and also someday topple Sanctuary’s repressive government. As one of the few former inhabitants of the territory to escape, his knowledge was invaluable to them. He’d even started his own ghost website, trying to get the truth out to as many believers as he could. 

That wasn’t the biggest change, of course. The biggest change was currently three minutes out and loaded down with donuts. Bucky, his bonded partner, love of his life. Their binding was still something of an enigma to the scientists here who studied such happenings, a one of a kind occurrence. To Bucky and Steve, it was just a part of their relationship. A wondrous part. 

It did take a while for Steve to adjust, and Bucky was right about his abilities. His gift was so strong, in the beginning he often ended up doing the equivalent of mentally shouting at people. Bucky and Natasha helped him, though, and Bucky’s co-workers were _still_ trying to chart the upper limits of his skill. 

Steve descends the hard wood stairs in his bare feet, sneaking up on the two little girls currently pulling a bottle of maple syrup out of his cabinet and loudly debating the merits of pancakes over waffles as breakfast fare. The addition of Tony and his family to the house was more recent, the family having assumed temporary residence there until they could find their own digs.

After all, the house was big, they had the space, and Tony only helped save his life. When Natasha had nonchalantly mentioned to Steve, Sam and Clint that Tony’s family had _coincidentally_ secured permission for vacation outside of Sanctuary four months after the rescue, nobody believed her denial of involvement. 

And no one believed Thor and Peter when they turned up with a liberated Tony, Pepper and kids in tow, claiming to have “accidentally” separated them from their Sanctuary-approved tour bus. After that it was warm welcomes and happy celebrations. It soothed Steve’s secret fear that someday Tony would be found out and punished for helping him escape, and just made life all around better. Tony, of course, joined Steve’s practice as his new partner. Another link to his former life he was thrilled to have survive intact. 

Steve is now in the middle of a delaying tactic (his very best moose impersonation) for a hungry Bailey when Bucky arrives to save the day. Sam is just behind him on the way in the door, as if he could smell the fragrant bear claws from inside the bag, from inside his own house.

“Morning, all,” he booms. “Everybody’s favorite uncle is here!”

That’s a typical Saturday morning these days. 

The typical night? 

Well, that’s something else entirely. Those consist of Steve and Bucky snuggling down together in their own bed, hands roaming freely over each other’s bodies, mouths delivering sweet kisses, and having the best sex both could ever want. 

Later that same night, Steve is on his back again in bed. This time, Bucky is on top of him, sweaty and breathless, pumping in and out of his body, filling him the way he loves to be filled. 

Bucky: _I want you to make that sound for me, baby, the sound you were making this morning._

Steve grunts and pulls at Bucky’s hips to bury him still deeper. _Which sound is that, love?_

Bucky: _You know, that moose sound. Sooooo sexy._

He hoists Steve’s legs up higher, changing his angle, and Steve both laughs and sighs contentedly.

Steve: _I don’t know, that sound is for special occasions only._

Even before he sees Bucky smile, Steve can feel his amusement, and his love. That was the interesting part of their binding. Not only could they speak to each other non-verbally, they could share images, even feelings. It was unlike any other binding, yet felt natural and perfect to them. 

Bucky: _Isn’t this special?_

He thrusts his hips, pushing his cock up against Steve’s prostate, and if he keeps that up, Steve will howl like a wolf if asked to. He can’t resist giving Bucky a hard time, though, because it’s just too much fucking fun. 

Steve: _Special enough for Moose? Don’t know about that._

Above him, Bucky’s smile becomes devilish. _Well, I do love a challenge._

Steve licks his lips in anticipation. He’s gonna get it, now. 

And that's just perfect, too.


End file.
